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Book- 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



































C|)e of ^al?ac 

CENTENARY EDITION 

VOLUME III. 


FAME AND SORROW 


AND OTHER STORIES 






1 









^tcnejS from ^ritate 3tifc 


LA COMEDIE HUMAINE 

OF 

HONORE DE BALZAC 

tt 


TRANSLATED BY 

KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 


FAME AND SORROW 
COLONEL CHABERT 
THE ATHEIST’S MASS 
LA GRANDE B RE TEC HE 
THE PURSE 
LA GRENAD/^RE 
A DOUBLE LIFE 
THE RURAL BALL 
THE DESERTED WOMAN 


Sllustratcti bg 

LAURENT-DESROUSSEAUX 
AND GEORGES CAIN 


BOSTON 

LPITLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1899 


\ 





, ^zz 


Fam. 


2 , 


Copyright, 1890,1895,1896, 

By Roberts Brothers. 

Copyright, 1899, 

By Hardy, Pratt, and Company. 

A ll rights reserved. 


’’WOeOoijrs ^SCEIVEO, 



^Enibcrsttg ^rcss: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A 





ILLUSTRATIONS. 


From Photogravure Plates by Goupil ^ Co., Paris. 

“The shop was not yet lighted up” . . Frontispiece '^ 

“ On such days she would sit beneath an 

evergreen”. Page 328 

Designed by Laueext-Desrousseaux. 

<‘The Abb:^ appeared in a state of very evi¬ 
dent agitation”. 419 


Designed by Georges Cain. 













f 




4 


C 









FAME AND SORROW.* 


Dedicated to Mademoiselle Marie de Montheaxj. 


About the middle of the rue Saint-Denis, and near 
the corner of the rue du Pet' Dion, there stood, not 
very long ago, one of those precious houses which 
enable historians to reconstruct by analogy the Paris 
of former times. The frowning walls of this shabby 
building seemed to have been originally decorated by 
hieroglj'phics. What other name could a passing ob¬ 
server give to the X’s and the Y’s traced upon them 
by the transversal or diagonal pieces of wood which 
showed under the stucco through a number of little 
parallel cracks? Evidently, the jar of each passing 
carriage shook the old joists in their plaster coatings. 

1 This was the title (Gloire et Malheur) under which the story 
was first published in 1830. The name was changed in 1842 to 
La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote. The awkwardness of the title in 
English (The House of the Cat-playing-ball) leads the translator 

to use the original name given by Balzac. _ 

1 




o 


Fame and Sorrow. 


The venerable building was covered with a triangular 
roof, a shape of which no specimen will exist much 
longer in Paris. This roof, twisted out of line by the 
inclemencies of Parisian weather, overhung the street 
by about three feet, as much to protect the door-steps 
from the rain as to shelter the wall of the garret and its 
frameless window; for the upper storey was built of 
planks, nailed one above the other like slates, so as not 
to overweight the construction beneath it. 

On a rain}- morning in the month of March, a j'oung 
man carefully wrapped in a cloak was standing beneath 
the awning of a shop directly opposite to the old build¬ 
ing, which he examined with the enthusiasm of an archae¬ 
ologist ; for, in truth, this relic of the bourgeoisie of the 
sixteenth century presented more than one problem to 
the mind of an intelligent observer. Each storey had 
its own peculiarity ; on the first were four long, narrow 
windows ver}^ close to each other, with wooden squares 
in place of glass panes to the lower sash, so as to give 
the uncertain light by which a clever shopkeeper can 
make his goods match any color desired by a customer. ' 

The young man seemed to disdain this important part 
of the house; in fact, his eyes had not even rested on 
it. The windows of the second floor, the raised outer 
blinds of which gave to sight through large panes of 
Bohemian glass small muslin curtains of a reddish tinge, 
seemed also not to interest him. His attention centred 


Fame and Sorrow, 


3 


on the third store}", — on certain humble windows, the 
wooden frames of which deserved a place in the Con¬ 
servatory of Arts and Manufactures as specimens of 
the earliest efforts of French joinery. These windows 
had little panes of so green a glass that had he not 
possessed an excellent pair of eyes the young man could 
not have seen the blue-checked curtains which hid the 
mysteries of the room from the gaze of the profane. 
Occasionally the watcher, as if tii’ed of his abortive 
watch, or annoyed by the silence in which the house 
was buried, dropped his eyes to the lower regions. An 
involuntary smile would then flicker on his lips as he 
glanced at the shop, where, indeed, were certain things 
that were laughable enough. 

A formidable beam of wood, resting horizontally on 
four pillars which appeared to bend under the weight of 
the decrepit house, had received as many and diverse 
coats of paint as the cheek of an old duchess. At the 
middle of this large beam, slightly carved, was an an¬ 
tique picture representing a cat playing ball. It was 
this work of art which made the young man smile ; and 
it must be owned that not the cleverest of modern 
painters could have invented a more comical design. 
The animal held in one of its fore-paws a racket as big 
as itself, and stood up on its hind paws to aim at an 
enormous ball which a gentleman in a brocaded coat was 
tossing to it. Design, colors, and accessories were all 



4 


Tame and Sorrow, 


treated in a wa^^ to inspire a belief that the artist meant 
to make fun of both merchant and customers. Time, 
by altering the crude colors, had made the picture still 
more grotesque through certain bewildering changes, 
which could not fail to trouble a conscientious observer. 
For instance, the ringed tail of the cat was cut apart in 
such a way that the end might be taken for an onlooker, 
so thick, long, and well-covered were the tails of the 
cats of our ancestors. To the right of the picture, on a 
blue ground, which imperfectly concealed the rotten 
wood, could be read the name “ Guillaume,” and to the 
left the words “ Successor to the Sieur Chevrel.” 

Sun and rain had tarnished or washed off the greater 
part of the gilding parsimoniously bestowed upon tliQ 
letters of this inscription, in which U’s stood in place of 
V’s, and vice versa,, according to the rules of our ancient 
orthograph3^ In order to bring down the pride of those 
who think the world is dail}’ growing cleverer and wit¬ 
tier, and that modern claptrappery surpasses ever^’thing 
that went before, it may be well to mention here that 
such signs as these, the etymology of which seems fan¬ 
tastic to man}" Parisian merchants, are really the dead 
pictures of once living realities by which our livel}’ an¬ 
cestors contrived to entice customers into their shops. 
Thus, “The Sow a-Spinning,” “The Green Monkey,” 
and so forth, were live animals in cages, whose clever 
tricks delighted the passers in the streets, and whose 


Fame and Sorrow. 


5 


training proved the patience of the shopkeepers of the 
fifteenth century. Such natural curiosities brought bet¬ 
ter profits to their fortunate possessors than the fine 
names, “Good Faith,” “Providence,” “The Grace of 
God,” “The Decapitation of Saint John the Baptist,” 
which are still to be seen in that same rue Saint-Denis. 

However, our unknown young man was certainly not 
stationed there to admire the cat, which a moment’s 
notice sufficed to fix in his memory. He too, had his 
peculiarities. His cloak, flung about him after the man¬ 
ner of antique draper}^, left to sight the elegant shoes 
and white silk stockings on his feet, which were all the 
more noticeable in the midst of that Parisian mud, 
several spots of which seemed to prove the haste with 
which he had made his way there. No doubt he had 
just left a wedding or a ball, for at this earl}^ hour of 
the morning he held a pair of white gloves in his hand, 
and the curls of his black hair, now uncurled and'tum¬ 
bling on his shoulders, seemed to indicate a style of 
wearing it called “ Caracalla,” a fashion set by the 
painter David and his school, and followed with that 
devotion to Greek and Roman ideas and shapes which 
marked the earlier years of this century. 

In spite of the noise made by a few belated kitchen- 
gardeners as they gallopped their cartloads of produce 
to the markets, the street was still hushed in that calm 
stillness the magic of which is known only to those who 


6 


Fame and Sorrow, 


wander about a deserted Paris at the hour when its 
nightly uproar ceases for a moment, then reawakes and 
is heard in the distance like the voice of Ocean. 

This singular 3’oung man must have seemed as odd 
to the shopkeepers of the Cat-playing-ball as the Cat¬ 
playing-ball seemed to him. A dazzling white cravat 
made his harassed white face even paler than it really 
was. The fire of his black e3’es, that were sparkling 
and 3’et gloomy’, harmonized with the eccentric outline 
of his face, and with his large, sinuous mouth, which con^ 
tracted when he smiled. His forehead, wrinkling under 
an}" violent annoyance, had something fatal about it. 
The forehead is surely the most prophetic feature of the 
face. When that of this unknown young man expressed 
anger, the creases which immediatel}" showed upon it 
excited a sort of terror, through the force of passion 
which brought them there; but the moment he recov¬ 
ered his calmness, so easily shaken, the brow shone 
with a luminous grace that embellished the whole coun¬ 
tenance, where jo}" and grief, love, anger, and disdain 
flashed forth in so communicative a waj" that the coldest 
of men was inevitablj’ impressed. 

It chanced that the man was so annoyed at the mo¬ 
ment when some one hastily opened the garret window, 
that he missed seeing three jo^-ous faces, plump, and 
white, and rosy, but also as commonplace as those given 
to the statues of Commerce on public buildings. These 


Fame and Sorrow, 


7 


tliree heads framed by the open window, recalled the 
puffy angel faces scattered among the clouds, which 
usually accompany the Eternal Father. The appren¬ 
tices were inhaling the emanations from the street with 
an eagerness which showed how hot and mephitic the 
atmosphere of their garret must have been. The elder 
of the three clerks, after pointing out to his companions 
the stranger in the street, disappeared for a moment 
and then returned, holding in his hand an instrument 
whose inflexible metal has latel}" been replaced by sup¬ 
ple leather. Thereupon a mischievous expression came 
upon all three faces as they looked at the singular watch¬ 
er, while the elder proceeded to shower him with a fine 
white rain, the odor of which proved that three chins 
had just been shaved. Standing back in the room on 
tiptoe to enjoy their victim’s rage, the clerks all stopped 
laughing when they saw the careless disdain with which 
the 3^oung man shook the drops from his mantle, and 
the profound contempt apparent on his face when he 
raised his e3^es to the now vacant window. 

Just then a delicate white hand lifted the lower part 
of one of the roughly made windows on the third floor 
by means of those old-fashioned grooves, whose pulleys 
so often let fall the heavj’ sashes the}’ were intended to 
hold up. The watcher was rewarded for his long wait¬ 
ing. The face of a j’oung girl, fresh as the white lilies 
that bloom on the surface of a lake, appeared, framed 


8 


Fame and Sorrow, 


b}’ a rumpled muslin cap, which gave a delightful look 
of innocence to the head. Her neck and shoulders, 
though covered with some brown stuff, were plainl}' 
seen through rifts in the garment opened by movements 
made in sleep. No sign of constraint marred the in¬ 
genuous expression of that face nor the calm of those 
eyes, immortalized already in the sublime conceptions 
of Raffaelle ; here was the same grace, the same virgin 
tranquillity now become proverbial. A charming con¬ 
trast was produced by the 3'outh of the cheeks, on which 
sleep had thrown into relief a superabundance of life, 
and the age of the massive window, with its coarse 
frame now blackened hy time. Like those day-bloom¬ 
ing flowers which in the earlj’ morning have not as ^^et 
unfolded their tunics tightl}^ closed against the chill of 
night, the 3^oung girl, scarcel3" awake, let her e3’es wan¬ 
der across the neighboring roofs and upward to the sky ; 
then she lowered them to the gloom3" precincts of the 
street, where they at once encountered those of her 
adorer. No doubt her innate coquetr3" caused her a 
pang of mortification at being seen in such dishabille, 
for she quickl3' drew back, the worn-out sash-pulle3’ 
turned, the window came down with a rapidit3" which 
has earned, in our da3', an odious name for that naive 
invention of our ancestors, and the vision disappeared. 
The brightest of the stars of the morning seemed to the 
3’'Oung man to have passed suddenl3’ under a cloud. 


Fame and Sorrow. 


9 


While these trifling events were occurring, the heavy 
inside shutters which protected the thin glass of the 
windows in the shop, called the House of the Cat¬ 
playing-ball, had been opened as if bj^ magic. The 
door, with its old fashioned knocker, was set back 
against the inner wall by a serving-man, who might 
have been contemporary with the sign itself, and whose 
shaking hand fastened to the picture a square bit of 
cloth, on which were embroidered in yellow silk the 
words, “ Guillaume, successor to Chevrel.” More than 
one pedestrian would have been unable to guess the 
business in which the said Guillaume was engaged. 
Through the heavy iron bars which protected the shop 
window on the outside, it was diflScult to see the bales 
wrapped in brown linen, which were as numerous as a 
school of herrings on their way across the ocean. In 
spite of the apparent simplicity of this gothic fagade, 
Monsieur Guillaume was among the best known drapers 
in Paris, one whose shop was always well supplied, 
whose business relations were widely extended, and 
whose commercial honor no one had ever doubted. If 
some of his fellow-tradesmen made contracts with the 
government without possessing cloth enough to fulfil 
them, he was alwa3"S able and willing to lend them 
enough to make up deficiencies, however large the num¬ 
ber contracted for might be. The shrewd dealer knew 
a hundred ways of drawing the lion’s share of profits to 


10 


Fame and Sorroiv, 


himself without being forced, like the others, to beg for 
influence, or do base things, or give rich presents. If 
the tradesmen he thus assisted could not pay the loan 
except by long drafts on good security, he referred 
them to his notary, like an accommodating man, and 
managed to get a double profit out of the affair; an 
expedient which led to a remark, almost proverbial in 
the rue Saint-Denis, “ God keep us from the notarj^ of 
Monsieur Guillaume! ” 

The old dealer happened, as if b}" some miraculous 
chance, to be standing at the open door of his shop 
just as the servant, having finished that part of his 
morning duty, withdrew. Monsieur Guillaume looked 
up and down the rue Saint-Denis, then at the adjoining 
shops, and then at the weather, like a man landing 
at Havre who sees France again after a long voy¬ 
age. Having fully convinced himself that nothing had 
changed since he went to sleep the night before, he 
now perceived the man doing sentry dutj’^, who, on his 
side, was examining the patriarch of drapery verj" much 
as Humboldt must have examined the first electric eel 
which he saw in America. 

Monsieur Guillaume wore wide breeches of black 
velvet, dyed stockings, and square shoes with silver 
buckles; his coat, made with square lappels, square 
skirts, and square collar, wrapped a figure, slightly bent, 
in its loose folds of greenish cloth, and was fastened with 


Fame and Sorrow, 


11 


large, white, metal buttons tarnished from use ; his gray 
hair was so carefully combed and plastered to his 3’el- 
low skull that the two presented somewhat the effect of 
a ploughed field ; his little green eyes, sharp as gimlets, 
glittered under lids whose pale red edges took the place 
of lashes. Care had furrowed his brow with as manj'’ 
horizontal lines as there were folds in his coat. The 
pallid face bespoke patience, commercial wisdom, and 
a species of sly cupidity acquired in business. 

At the period of which we write it was less rare than 
it is now to meet with old commercial families who pre¬ 
served as precious traditions the manners, customs, and 
characteristics of their particular callings; and who 
remained, in the midst of the new civilization, as ante¬ 
diluvian as the fossils discovered by Cuvier in the quar¬ 
ries. The head of the Guillaume family was one of these 
noteworthy guardians of old customs ; he even regretted 
the provost-marshal of merchants, and never spoke of a 
decision in the court of commerce without calling it ‘ ‘ the 
sentence of the consuls.” Having risen, in accordance 
with these customs, the earliest in the house, he was 
now awaiting with a determined air the arrival of his 
three clerks, intending to scold them if a trifle late. 
Those heedless disciples of Mercury knew nothing more 
appalling than the silent observation with which the 
master scrutinized their faces and their movements of a 
Monday morning, searching for proofs or traces of their 


12 


Fame and Sorrow, 


frolics. But, strange to saj", just as they appeared, the 
old draper paid no attention to his apprentices ; he was 
engaged in finding a motive for the evident interest 
with which the young man in silk stockings and a 
cloak turned his eyes alternatelj^ on the pictured sign 
and then into the depths of the shop. The dajdight, 
now increasing, showed the counting-room behind an 
iron railing covered by curtains of faded green silk, 
where Monsieur Guillaume kept his huge books, the mute 
oracles of his business. The too inquisitive stranger 
seemed to have an e^'e on them, and also to be scruti¬ 
nizing the adjoining dining-room, where the famil}^, 
when assembled for a meal, could see w^hatever hap¬ 
pened at the entrance of the shop. So great an interest 
in his private premises seemed suspicious to the old 
merchant, who had lived under the law of the maxi¬ 
mum. Consequently, Monsieur Guillaume supposed, 
not unnaturally, that the doubtful stranger had designs 
upon his strong-box. 

The elder of the clerks, after discreetly enjoying the 
silent duel which was taking place between his master 
and the stranger, ventured to come out upon the step 
where stood Monsieur Guillaume, and there he observed 
that the young man was glancing furtively' at the third- 
floor windows. The clerk made three steps into the 
street, looked up, and fancied he caught sight of Ma¬ 
demoiselle Augustine Guillaume hastily retiring. Dis- 


Fame and Sorrow, 


13 


pleased with this show of perspicacit}' on the part of his 
head-clerk, the draper looked askance at his subordi¬ 
nate, Then suddenly the mutual anxieties excited in 
the souls of lover and merchant were allayed, — the 
stranger hailed a passing hackney coach, and jumped 
into it with a deceitful air of indifference. His depart¬ 
ure shed a sort of balm into the souls of the other 
clerks, who were somewhat uneasy at the presence of 
their victim. 

“ Well, gentlemen, what are you about, standing 
there with your arms crossed ? ” said Monsieur Guil¬ 
laume to his three neophytes. “In my day, good 
faith, when I was under the Sieur Chevrel, I had ex¬ 
amined two pieces of cloth before this time of day ! ” 

“Then it must have been da3dight earlier,” said the 
second clerk, whose duty it was to examine the rolls. 

The old dealer could not help smiling. Though two 
of the three clerks, consigned to his care by their fath¬ 
ers, rich manufacturers at Louviers and Sedan, had only 
to ask on the da}" they came of age for a hundred thou¬ 
sand francs, to have them, Guillaume believed it to be 
his dut}" to keep them under the iron rod of an old- 
fashioned despotism, wholly unknown in these daj-s in 
our brilliant modern shops, where the clerks expect to 
be rich men at thirty, — he made them work like negro 
slaves. His three clerks did as much as would have 
tired out ten of the modern sybarites whose laziness 


14 


Fame and Sorrow. 


swells the columns of a budget. No sound ever broke 
the stillness of that solemn establishment, where all 
hinges were oiled, and the smallest article of furniture 
was kept with a virtuous nicety which showed severe 
economy and the strictest order. Sometimes the gid¬ 
diest of the three clerks ventured to scratch upon the 
rind of the Gruj’ere cheese, which was delivered to 
them at breakfast and scrupulously respected by them, 
the date of its first delivery. This prank, and a few 
others of a like kind, would occasionally bring a smile 
to the lips of Guillaume’s youngest daughter, the pretty 
maiden who had just passed like a vision before the 
eyes of the enchanted watcher. 

Though each of the apprentices paid a large sum for 
hi^ board, not one of them would have dared to remain 
at table until the dessert was served. When Madame 
Guillaume made ready to mix the salad, the poor young 
fellows trembled to think with what parsimony that pru¬ 
dent hand would pour the oil. They were not allowed 
to pass a night off the premises without giving long 
notice and plausible reasons for the irregularity. Every 
Sunday two clerks, taking the honor by turns, accom¬ 
panied the Guillaume family to mass and to vespers. 
Mesdemoiselles Virginie and Augustine, Gillaume’s two 
daughters, modestly attired in printed cotton gowns, 
each took the arm of a clerk and walked in front, 
beneath the piercing eyes of their mother, who brought 


Fame and Sorrow, 


15 


up the domestic procession with her husband, com¬ 
pelled by her to carry two large prayer-books bound 
in black morocco. The second clerk received no salary ; 
as to the elder, whom twelve years of perseverance and 
discretion had initiated into the secrets of the establish¬ 
ment, he received twelve hundred francs a year in re¬ 
turn for his services. On certain family f§te-days a few 
gifts were bestowed upon him, the sole value of which 
la}" in the labor of Madame Guillaume’s lean and wrinkled 
hands, — knitted purses, which she took care to stuff 
with cotton wool to show their patterns, braces of the 
strongest construction, or silk stockings of the heaviest 
make. Sometimes, but rarely, this prime minister was 
allowed to share the enjo3-ments of the family when they 
spent a day in the country or, after months of deliber¬ 
ation, they decided to hire a box at the theatre, and 
use their right to demand some play of which Paris had 
long been weary. 

As to the other clerks, the barrier of respect which 
formerly separated a master draper from his appren¬ 
tices was so firmly fixed between them and the old 
merchant that they would have feared less to steal a 
piece of cloth than to break through that august eti¬ 
quette. This deference may seem preposterous in our 
day, but these old houses were schools of commercial 
honesty and dignity. The masters adopted the appren¬ 
tices ; their linen was cared for, mended, and often re- 


16 


Fame and Sorrow, 


newed b}’ the mistress of the house. If a clerk fell ill 
the attention he received was truly maternal; in case of 
danger the master spared no money and called in the 
best doctors, for he held himself answerable to the 
parents of these young men for their health as well as 
for their morals and their business training. If one of 
them, honorable by nature, was overtaken by some dis¬ 
aster, these old merchants knew how to appreciate the 
real intelligence such a youth had displayed, and often 
did not hesitate to trust the happiness of a daughter to 
one to whom the}^ had already confided the care of their 
business. Guillaume was one of these old-fashioned busi¬ 
ness men ; if he had their absurdities, he had also their 
fine qualities. Thus it was that Joseph Lebas, his head- 
clerk, an orphan without propert}^, was, to his mind, a 
suitable husband for Virginie, his eldest daughter. But 
Joseph did not share these cut-and-dried opinions of 
his master, who, for an empire, would not have married 
his youngest daughter before the elder. The unfortu¬ 
nate clerk felt that his heart was given to Mademoiselle 
Augustine, the 3"ounger sister. To explain this passion, 
which had grown up secretl}^, we must look further into 
the sj’stem of autocratic government which ruled the 
house and home of the old merchant draper. 

Guillaume had two daughters. The eldest. Made¬ 
moiselle Virginie, was a reproduction of her mother. 
Madame Guillaume, daughter of the Sieur Chevrel, sat 


Fame and Sorrow. 


17 


so firmly upright behind her counter that she had more 
than once overheard bets as to her being impaled there. 
Her long, thin face expressed a sanctimonious piety. 
Madame Guillaume, devoid of all grace and without 
amiability of manner, covered her sexagenary head with 
a bonnet of invariable shape trimmed with long lappets 
like those of a widow. The whole neighborhood called 
her “the nun.” Her words were few; her gestures 
sudden and jerk}^, like the action of a telegraph. Her 
eyes, clear as those of a cat, seemed to dislike the 
whole world because she herself was ugly. Mademoi¬ 
selle Virginie, brought up, like her younger sister, under 
the domestic rule of her mother, was now twent3'-eight 
3'ears of age. Youth softened the ill-favored, awkward 
air which her resemblance to her mother gave at times 
to her appearance ; but maternal severit}^ had bestowed 
upon her two great qualities which counterbalanced the 
rest of her inheritance, — she was gentle and patient. 
Mademoiselle Augustine, now scarcely eighteen 3’ears 
old, was like neither father nor mother. She was one 
of those girls who, by the absence of all phj'sical ties 
to their parents, seem to justify the saying of prudes, 
“God sends the children.” Augustine was small, or, 
to give a better idea of her, delicate. Graceful and full 
of simplicity and candor, a man of the world could have 
found no fault with the charming creature except that 
her gestures were unmeaning and her attitudes occasion- 

2 


18 


Fame and Sorrow. 


ally common, or even awkward. Her silent and qui¬ 
escent face expressed the fleeting melancholy w^hich 
fastens upon all young girls who are too feeble to dare 
resist the will of a domineering mother. 

Always modestly dressed, the two sisters had no way 
of satisfying the innate coquetry of their woman’s nature 
except by a luxury of cleanliness and neatness which 
became them wonderfully, and put them in keeping 
with the shining counters and shelves on which the old 
servant allowed not a speck of dust to settle, — in 
keeping, too, with the antique simplicit}- of everything 
about them. Forced by such a life to find the elements 
of happiness in regular occupation, Augustine and Vir- 
ginie had up to this time given nothing but satisfac¬ 
tion to their mother, who secretly congratulated herself 
on the perfect characters of her two daughters. It is 
easy to imagine the results of such an education as 
they had received. Brought up in the midst of busi¬ 
ness, accustomed to hear arguments and calculations 
that were grievously mercantile, taught grammar, book¬ 
keeping, a little Jewish history, a little French history 
in La Ragois, and allowed to read no books but those 
their mother sanctioned, it is unnecessary to sa}" that 
their ideas were limited; but the}" knew how to manage 
a household admirably ; they understood the value and 
the cost of things; they appreciated the difficulties in 
the w"ay of amassing money ; they were economical and 


Fame and Sorroiv, 


19 


full of respect for the faculties and qualities of men of 
business. In spite of their father’s wealth, they were 
as clever at darning as they were at embroidery; their 
mother talked of teaching them to cook, so that they 
might know how to order a dinner and scold the cook 
from actual experience. 

These girls, who were ignorant of the pleasures of the 
world and saw only the peaceful current of their parents’ 
exemplary lives, seldom cast their youthful eyes beyond 
the precincts of that old patrimonial house, which to 
their mother was the universe. The parties occasioned 
hy certain family solemnities formed the whole horizon 
of their terrestrial joys. When the large salon on the 
second floor was thrown open to receive guests, — such 
as Madame Eoguin, formerly Mademoiselle Chevrel, 
fifteen j’ears younger than her cousin, and who wore 
diamonds ; 3"Oung Rabourdin, head-clerk at the ministry 
of Finance; Monsieur Caesar Birotteau, the rich per¬ 
fumer, and his wife, called Madame Caesar; Monsieur 
Camusot, the richest silk merchant in the rue des Bour- 
donnais; his father-in-law. Monsieur Cardot; two or 
three old bankers, and certain irreproachable women, — 
then the preparations in getting out the silver plate, the 
Dresden china, the wax candles, the choice glass, all 
carefully packed away, were a diversion to the monoto¬ 
nous lives of the three women, who went and came, 
with as many steps and as much fuss as though they 


20 


Fame and Sorrow. 


were nuns preparing for the reception of their bishop. 
Then, at night, when all three were tired out with the 
exertion of wiping, rubbing, unpacking, and putting in 
their places the ornaments of these festivals, and the 
young girls were helping their mother to go to bed, 
Madame Guillaume would say, “My dears, we have 
really accomplished nothing.” 

If, at these solemn assemblies, the pious creature al¬ 
lowed a little dancing, and kept the whist and the 
boston and the tric-trac players to the confines of her 
own bedroom, the concession was accepted as an un¬ 
hoped-for felicity, and gave as much happiness as the 
two or three public balls to which Guillaume took his 
daughters during the carnival. Once a year the worthy 
draper himself gave an entertainment on which he 
spared no expense. However rich and elegant the in¬ 
vited guests might be, they took care not to miss that 
fete; for the most important business houses in the 
cit}' often had recourse to the vast credit, or the wealth, 
or the great experience of Monsieur Guillaume. The 
two daughters of the worth}" merchant did not, however, 
profit as much as might be thought from the instructions 
which societ}" offers to j’oung minds. They wore at 
these entertainments (bills of exchange, as it were, upon 
futurity) wreaths and ornaments of so common a kind 
as to make them blush. Their st3de of dancing was not 
of the best, and maternal vigilance allowed them to say 


Fame and Sorrow. 


21 


only “ Yes ” or No ” to their partners. Then the invari¬ 
able domestic rule of the Cat-playing-ball obliged them 
to retire at eleven o’clock, just as the party was getting 
animated. So their pleasures, apparently conformable 
with their father’s wealth, were really dull and insipid 
through circumstances derived from the habits and 
principles of their family. 

As to their daily life, a single fact will suflSce to paint 
it. Madame Guillaume required her daughters to dress 
for the day in the early morning, to come downstairs 
at precisely the same hour, and to arrange their occu¬ 
pations with monastic regularity. Yet, with all this, 
chance had bestowed upon Augustine a soul that was 
able to feel the void of such an existence. Sometimes 
those blue eyes were lifted for a moment as if to ques¬ 
tion the dark depths of the stairway or the damp shop. 
Listening to the cloistral silence her ears seemed to hear 
from afar confused revelations of the passionate life, 
which counts emotions as of more value than things. At 
such moments the girl’s face glowed ; her idle hands 
let fall the muslin on the polished oaken counter; but 
soon the mother’s voice would say, in tones that were 
always sharp, even when she intended them to be 
gentle, “Augustine, my dear, what are you thinking 
about ? ” 

Perhaps “ Hippolyte, Earl of Douglas,” and the 
“ Comte de Comminges,” two novels which Augustine 


22 


Fame and Sorrow. 


had found in the closet of a cook dismissed by Madame 
Guillaume, may have contributed to develop the ideas 
of the young girl, who had stealthily devoured those 
productions during the long nights of the preceding 
winter. The unconscious expression of vague desire, 
the soft voice, the jasmine skin, and the blue eyes of 
Augustine Guillaume had lighted a flame in the soul of 
poor Lebas as violent as it was humble. By a caprice 
that is easy enough to understand, Augustine felt no 
inclination for Joseph; perhaps because she did not 
know he loved her. On the other hand, the long legs 
and chestnut hair, the strong hands and vigorous frame 
of the head-clerk excited the admiration of Mademoiselle 
Virginie, who had not yet been asked in marriage in 
spite of a dowry of a hundred and fifty thousand francs. 
What could be more natural than these inversed loves, 
born in the silence of that shop like violets in the depths 
of the woods ? The mute contemplation which constantly 
drew the eyes of these 3’oung people together, through 
their violent need of some relief from the monotonous 
toil and the religious calm in which they lived, could not 
fail to excite, sooner or later, the emotions of love. 
The habit of looking into the face of another leads to 
an understanding of the noble qualities of the soul, and 
ends b}^ obliterating all defects. 

“ At the rate that man carries things,” thought Mon¬ 
sieur Guillaume when he read Napoleon’s first decree on 


Fame and Sorrow. 


23 


the classes for conscription, “our daughters will have 
to go upon their knees for husbands.” 

It was about that time that the old merchant, noticing 
that his eldest daughter was beginning to fade, be¬ 
thought him that he himself had married Mademoiselle 
Chevrel under very much the same circumstances as 
those in which Virginie and Joseph Lebas stood to each 
other. What a fine thing it would be to marry his 
daughter and pay a sacred debt by returning to the 
orphaned young man the same benefaction that he him¬ 
self had received from his predecessor in a like situa¬ 
tion? Joseph Lebas, who was thirt^'-three years of 
age, was fully conscious of the obstacles that a differ¬ 
ence of fifteen 3'ears in their ages placed between Au¬ 
gustine and himself. Too shrewd and intelligent not to 
fathom Monsieur Guillaume’s intentions, he understood 
his master’s inexorable principles far too well to sup¬ 
pose for a moment that the 3'ounger daughter could be 
married before the elder. The poor clerk, whose heart 
-was as good as his legs were long and his shoulders 
high, suffered in silence. 

Such was the state of things in this little republic of 
the rue Saint-Denis, which seemed in man}^ ways like an 
annex to La Trappe. But to explain external events 
as we have now explained inward feelings, it is neces¬ 
sary to look back a few months before the little scene 
which began this histor3\ 


24 


Fame and Sorrow. 


One evening at dusk a young man, happening to pass 
before the shop of the Cat-playing-ball, stopped to look 
at a scene within those precincts which all the painters 
of the w'orld w^ould have paused to contemplate. The 
shop, which was not yet lighted up, formed a dark vista 
through which the merchant’s dining-room was seen. 
An astral lamp on the dinner-table shed that yellow 
light which gives such charm to the Dutch pictures. 
The white table-linen, the silver, the glass, were bril¬ 
liant accessories, still further thrown into relief by the 
sharp contrasts of light and shadow. The figures of 
the father of the famil}^ and his wife, the faces of the 
clerks, and the pure lines of Augustine, near to w'hom 
stood a stout, chubby servant-girl, composed so remark¬ 
able a picture, the heads w^ere so original, the expression 
of each character was so frank, it was so eas}’ to imagine 
the peace, the silence, the modest life of the famil}’, that 
to an artist accustomed to express nature there was 
something absolutely commanding in the desire to paint 
this accidental scene. 

The pedestrian, thus arrested, was a 3’oung painter 
who, seven years earlier, had carried off the prix de 
Rome. He had lately^ returned from the Eternal City. 
His soul, fed on poesy, his eyes surfeited with Raffaelle 
and Michael-Angelo, w^ere now athirst for simple nature 
after his long sojourn in the mighty land where art has 
reached its highest grandeur. True or false, such was 


Fame and Sorrow, 


25 


his personal feeling. Carried away for years the fire 
of Italian passions, his heart now sought a calm and 
modest virgin, known to him as yet only upon canvas. 
The first enthusiasm of his soul at the simple picture 
before his eyes passed natural!}" into a deep admiration 
for the principal figure. Augustine seemed thoughtful, 
and was eating nothing. By a chance arrangement of 
the lamp, the light fell full upon her face, and her bust 
appeared to move in a circle of flame, which threw into 
still brighter relief the outline of her head, illuminating 
it in a wa}" that seemed half supernatural. The artist 
compared her involuntarily to an exiled angel remem¬ 
bering heaven. A m^’sterious feeling, almost unknown 
to him, a love limpid and bubbling overflowed bis 
heart. After standing a moment as if paralyzed be¬ 
neath the weight of these ideas, he tore himself away 
from his happiness and went home, unable either to 
eat or sleep. 

The next day he entered his studio, and did not leave 
it again until he had placed on canvas the magic charm 
of a scene the mere recollection of which had, as it were, 
laid a spell upon him. But his happiness was incom¬ 
plete so long as he did not possess a faithful portrait of 
his idol. Many a time he passed before the house of 
the Cat-playing-ball; he even entered the shop once 
or twice on some pretext to get a nearer view of the 
ravishing creature who was always covered by Madame 


26 


Fame and Sorrow, 


Guillaume’s wing. For eight whole months, given up 
to his love and to his brushes, he was invisible to his 
friends, even to his intimates ; he forgot all, — poetry, 
the theatre, music, and his most cherished habits. 

One morning Girodet the painter forced his way in, 
eluding all barriers as onl}’ artists can, and woke him 
up with the inquiry, “ What are you going to send to 
the Salon?” 

The artist seized his friend’s arm, led him to the 
studio, uncovered a little easel picture, and also a por¬ 
trait. After a slow and eager examination of the two 
masterpieces, Girodet threw his arms around his friend 
and kissed him, without finding words to speak. His 
feelings could only be uttered as he felt them, — soul 
to soul. 

‘‘You love her! ” he said at last. 

Both knew that the noblest portraits of Titian, Raf- 
faelle, and Leonardo da Vinci are due to exalted human 
feelings, which, under so maiw diverse conditions, have 
given birth to the masterpieces of art. For all answer 
the young painter bowed his head. 

“How fortunate, how happy yon are to be able to 
love here, in Paris, after leaving Italy. I can’t advise 
3"ou to send such works as those to the Salon,” added 
the distinguished painter. “ You see, such pictures 
cannot be felt there. Those absolutely true colors, 
that stupendous labor, will not be understood; the 


Fame and Sorrow, 


' 27 

public is no longer able to see into such depths. The 
pictures we paint now-a-da3’s, dear friend, are mere 
screens for decoration. Better make verses, S3.y I, 
and translate the ancients, — we shall get a truer fame 
that way than our miserable pictures will ever bring 
us.” 

But in spite of this friendlj^ advice the two pictures 
were exhibited. That of the interior made almost a 
revolution in art. It gave birth to the fashion of genre 
pictures which since that time have so filled our exhi¬ 
bitions that one might almost believe thej- were produced 
b}’ some mechanical process. As to the portrait, there 
are few living artists who do not cherish the memor}- of 
that breathing canvas on which the general public, occa¬ 
sionally just in its judgment, left the crown of praise 
which Girodet himself placed there. 

The two pictures were surrounded by crowds. People 
killed themselves, as women saj^, to look at them. Spec¬ 
ulators and great lords would have covered both can¬ 
vases with double-napoleons, but the artist obstinately 
refused to sell them, declining also to make copies. 
He was offered an immense sum if he would allow them 
to be engraved ; but the dealers were no more success¬ 
ful than the amateurs. . Though this affair engrossed 
the social world, it was not of a nature to penetrate the 
depths of Eg3’ptian solitude in the rue Saint-Denis. It 
so chanced, however, that the wife of a notary, paying 


28 


Fame and Sorrow. 


a visit to Madame Guillaume, spoke of the exhibition 
before Augustine, of whom she was very fond, and 
explained what it was. Madame Roguin’s chatter nat¬ 
urally inspired Augustine with a desire to see the pict¬ 
ures, and with the boldness to secretly" ask her cousin 
to take her to the Louvre. Madame Roguin succeeded 
in the negotiation she undertook with Madame Guil¬ 
laume, and was allowed to take her little cousin from 
her dail}' tasks for the short space of two hours. 

Thus it was that the 3'oung girl, passing through the 
crowd, stood before the famous picture. A quiver 
made her tremble like a birch-leaf when she recognized 
her own self. She was frightened, and looked about 
to rejoin Madame Roguin, from whom the crowd had 
parted her. At that instant her e^’es encountered 
the flushed face of the 3’oung painter. She suddenl^^ 
remembered a man who had frequentlj* passed the shop 
and whom she had often remarked, thinking he was 
feome new neighbor. 

“ You see there the inspiration of love,” said the ar¬ 
tist in a whisper to the timid creature, who was terrified 
b^’ his words. 

She summoned an almost supernatural courage to 
force her way through the crowd and rejoin her 
cousin. 

“You will be suffocated,” cried Augustine. “ Do let 


Fame and Sorrow, 


29 ' 


But there are certain moments at the Salon when 
two women are not able to move freel}^ through the 
galleries. Mademoiselle Guillaume and her cousin were 
blocked and pushed by the swaying crowd to within 
a few feet of the second picture. The exclamation of 
surprise uttered by Madame Roguin was lost in the 
noises of the room; but Augustine involuntarily wept 
as she looked at the marvellous scene. Then, with a 
feeling that is almost inexplicable, she put her finger on 
her lips as she saw the ecstatic face of the young artist 
within two feet of her. He replied with a motion of 
his head toward Madame Roguin, as if to show Augus¬ 
tine that he understood her. This pantomime threw a 
fire of burning coals into the being of the poor girl, 
who felt she was criminal in thus allowing a secret com¬ 
pact between herself and the unknown artist. The stif¬ 
ling heat, the sight of the brilliant dresses, a giddiness 
which the wonderful combinations of color produced in 
her, the multitude of figures, living and painted, which 
surrounded her, the profusion of gold frames, — all 
gave her a sense of intoxication which redoubled her 
terrors. She might have fainted if there had not welled 
up from the depths of her heart, in spite of this chaos 
of sensations, a mj^sterious joy which vivified her 
whole being. Still, she fancied she was under the do¬ 
minion of that demon whose dreadful snares were threats 
held out to her by the thundered words of the preach- 


30 


Fame and Sorrow, 


ers. The moment seemed like one of actual madness 
to her. She saw she was accompanied to her cousin’s 
carriage by the mysterious young man, resplendent 
with love and happiness. A new and unknown excite¬ 
ment possessed her, an intoxication which delivered 
her, as it were, into the hands of Nature; she listened 
to the eloquent voice of her own heart, and looked at 
the young painter several times, betraying as she did 
so the agitation of her thoughts. Never had the carna¬ 
tion of her cheeks formed a more charming contrast to 
the whiteness of her skin. The artist then beheld that 
beauty in its perfect flower, that virgin modesty in all 
its glory. 

Augustine became conscious of a sort of joy mingling 
with her terror as she thought how her presence had 
brought happiness to one whose name was on every lip 
and whose talent had given immortality to a passing 
scene. Yes, she was beloved ! she could not doubt it! 
When she ceased to see him, his words still sounded in 
her ear: “ You see the inspiration of love ! ” The pal¬ 
pitations of her heart were painful, so violently did the 
now ardent blood awaken unknown forces in her beino*. 

o 

She complained of a severe headache to avoid replying 
to her cousin’s questions about the pictures ; but when 
they reached home, Madame Roguin could not refrain 
from telling Madame Guillaume of the celebrity given to 
the establishment of the Cat-playing-ball, and Angus- 


Fame and Sorrow, 


31 


tine trem'bled in every limb as she heard her mother 
say she should go to the Salon and see her own house. 
Again the young girl complained of her headache, and 
received permission to go to bed. 

“That’s what you get by going to shows!” ex¬ 
claimed Monsieur Guillaume. “ Headaches I Is it so 
very amusing to see a picture of what you see every 
da}" in the street? Don’t talk to me of artists ; they are 
like authors, — half-starved beggars. Why the devil 
should that fellow choose my house to villify in his 
picture ? ” 

“ Perhaps it will help to sell some of our cloth,” said 
Joseph Lebas. 

That remark did not save art and literature from 
being once more arraigned and condemned before the 
tribunal of commerce. It will be readily believed that 
such discourse brought little encouragement to Augus¬ 
tine, who gave herself up in the night-time to the first 
revery of love. The events of the day were like those 
of a dream which she delighted to reproduce in thought. 
She learned the fears, the hopes, the remorse, all those 
undulations of feeling which rock a heart as simple and 
timid as hers. What a void she felt within that gloomy 
house, what a treasure she found within her soul I To 
be the wife of a man of talent, to share his fame! 
Imagine the havoc such a thought would make in the 
lieart of a child brought up in the bosom of such a fam- 


32 


Fame and Sorrow. 


ily! What hopes would it not awaken in a girl who 
lived among the vulgarities of life, and yet longed for 
its elegancies. A beam of light had come into her 
prison. Augustine loved, loved suddenlj’. So many 
repressed feelings were gratified that she succumbed at 
once, without an instant’s reflection. At eighteen love 
flings its prism between the world and the eyes of a 
maiden. Incapable of imagining the harsh experience 
which comes to eveiy loving woman married to a man 
gifted with imagination, she fancied herself called to 
make the happiness of such a man, seeing no disparity 
between them. For her the present was the whole 
future. 

When Monsieur and Madame Guillaume returned the 
next day from the Salon, their faces announced disap¬ 
pointment and anno3mnce. In the first place, the artist 
had withdrawn the picture ; in the next, Madame Guil¬ 
laume had lost her cashmere shawl. The news that the 
pictures had been withdrawn after her visit to the Salon 
was to Augustine the revelation of a delicac}” of senti¬ 
ment which all women appreciate, if onlj^ instinctivelj'. 

The morning on which, returning from a ball, Theo¬ 
dore de Sommervieux (such was the name wliich cele- 
britj' had now placed in Augustine’s heart), was 
showered with soapy water by the clerks of the Cat¬ 
playing-ball, as he awaited the apparition of his in¬ 
nocent beauty, — who certainly did not know he was 


Fame and Sorrow, 


33 


there, — was only the fourth occasion of their seeing 
each other since that first meeting at the Salon. The 
obstacles which the iron s3"stem of the house of Guil¬ 
laume placed in the way of the ardent and impetuous 
nature of the artist, added a violence to his passion for 
Augustine, which will be readily understood. How ap¬ 
proach a young girl seated behind a counter between 
two such women as Mademoiselle Virginie and Madame 
Guillaume? How was it possible to correspond with 
her if her mother never left her? Ready, like all 
lovers, to invent troubles for himself, Theodore se¬ 
lected a rival among the clerks, and suspected the 
others of being in their comrade’s interests. If he 
escaped their Argus eyes he felt he should succumb to 
the stern glances of the old merchant or Madame Guil¬ 
laume. Obstacles on all sides, despair on all sides I 
The very violence of his passion prevented the young 
man from inventing those clever expedients which, in 
lovers as well as in prisoners, seem to be crowning 
elforts of intellect roused either by a savage desire for 
liberty or by the ardor of love. Then Theodore would 
rush round the corner like a madman, as if movement 
alone could suggest a way out of the difficult3% 

After allowing his imagination to torment him for 
weeks, it came into his head to bribe the chubby 
servant-girl. A few letters were thus exchanged during 

the fortnight which followed the unluck}’ morning when 

3 


34 


Fame and Sorrow, 


Monsieur Guillaume and Theodore had first met. The 
loving pair had now agreed to see each other dail}' at a 
certain hour, and on Sunday at the church of Saint- 
Leu, during both mass and vespers. Augustine had 
sent her dear Theodore a list of the friends and rela¬ 
tives of the family to whom the young painter was 
to gain access. He was then to endeavor to inter¬ 
est in his loving cause some one of those money¬ 
making and commercial souls to whom a real passion 
would otherwise seem a monstrous and unheard-of 
speculation. 

In other respects nothing happened and no change 
took place in the habits of the Cat-plajfing-ball. If 
Augustine was absent-minded; if, against every law 
of the domestic charter, she went up to her bedroom 
to make the signals under cover of the fiower-pots; 
if she sighed, if she brooded, — no one, not even her 
mother, found it out. This may cause some surprise 
to those -who have understood the spirit of the house¬ 
hold, where a single idea tinged with poetry would have 
contrasted sharply with the beings and with the things 
therein contained, and where no one was able to give a 
look or gesture that was not seen and analyzed. And 
yet, as it happened, nothing was really more natural. 
The tranquil vessel which navigated the seas of Parisian 
commerce under the fiag of the Cat-playing-ball, was at 
this particular moment tossed about in one of those 


Fame and Sorrow, 


85 


storms which may be called equinoctial, on account of 
their periodical return. 

For the last fifteen days the five men of the establish¬ 
ment, with Madame Guillaume and Mademoiselle Vir- 
ginie, had devoted themselves to that severe toil which 
goes by the name of “ taking an inventory.’^ All bales 
were undone, and the length of each piece of goods was 
measured, to learn the exact value of what remained on 
hand. The card attached to each piece was carefully 
examined to know how long the dhferent goods had 
been in stock. New prices were affixed. Monsieur 
Guillaume, always standing up, yard-measure in hand, 
his pen behind his ear, w^as like a captain in command 
of a ship. His sharp voice, passing down a hatchway 
to the ware-rooms below, rang out that barbarous 
jargon of commerce expressed in enigmas: “How 
many H-N-Z?” “ Take it away! ” “ How much left 

of Q-X?” “Two yards.” “What price?” “Five- 
five-three.” “ Put at three A all J-J, all M-P, and the 
rest of V-D- 0 .” A thousand other such phrases, all 
equally intelligible, resounded across the counters, like 
those verses of modern poetry which the romanticists 
recite to each other to keep up their enthusiasm for a 
favorite poet. At night Monsieur Guillaume locked 
himself and his head-clerk and his wife into the count¬ 
ing-room, went over the books, opened the new accounts, 
notified the dilatory debtors, and made out all bills. 


36 


Fame and Sorrow. 


The results of this immense toil, which could be noted 
down on one sheet of foolscap paper, proved to the 
house of Guillaume that it owned so much in money, so 
much in merchandise, so much in notes and cheques; 
also that it did not owe a sou, but that so many hun¬ 
dred thousand francs were owing to it; that its capital 
had increased; that its farms, houses, and stocks were 
to be enlarged, repaired, or doubled. Hence came a 
sense of the necessity of beginning once more with 
renewed ardor the accumulation of more mone}’; 
though none of these brave ants ever thought of ask¬ 
ing themselves, “What’s the good of it?” 

Thanks to this annual tumult, the happ}' Augustine 
was able to escape the observation of her Arguses. At 
last, one Saturday evening, the “ taking of the inven- 
torj" ” was an accomplished fact. The figures of the 
total assets showed so many ciphers that in honor of 
the occasion Monsieur Guillaume removed the stern 
embargo which reigned throughout the 3'ear at des¬ 
sert. The sly old draper rubbed his hands and told the 
clerks they might remain at table. Thej^ had hardly 
swallowed their little glass of a certain home-made 
liqueur, however, when carriage-wheels were heard in 
the street. The famil}^ were going to the Varietes to 
see “ Cinderella,” while the two ^younger clerks each 
received six francs and permission to go where they 
liked, provided they^ were at home by midnight. 


Fame and Sorrow, 


37 


The next morning, in spite of this debauch, the old 
merchant-draper shaved at six o’clock, put on his fine 
maroon coat, — the lustre of its cloth causing him, as 
usual, much satisfaction, — fastened his gold buckles to 
the knee-band of his ample silk breeches, and then, 
toward seven o’clock, while everj’ one in the house was 
still asleep, he went to the little office adjoining the 
shop on the first floor. It was lighted by a window 
protected by thick iron bars, and looked out upon a lit¬ 
tle square court formed by walls so black that the place 
was like a well. The old merchant opened an inner 
blind that was clamped with iron, and raised a sash of 
the window. The chill air of the court cooled the hot 
atmosphere of the office, which exhaled an odor peculiar 
to all such places. Monsieur Guillaume remained stand¬ 
ing, one hand resting on the greasy arm of a cane-chair 
covered wdth morocco, the primitive color of which was 
now eflfaced; he seemed to hesitate to sit down. The old 
man glanced with a softened air at the tall double desk, 
where his wife’s seat was arranged exactly opposite to 
his own, in a little arched alcove made in the wall. 
He looked at the numbered paper-boxes, the twine, the 
various utensils, the irons with which they marked the 
cloth, the safe, — all objects of immemorial origin,— 
and he fancied himself standing before the evoked shade 
Df the late Chevrel. He pulled out the very stool on 
which he formerly sat in presence of his now defunct 


38 


Fame and Sorrow, 


master. That stool, covered with black leather, from 
which the horsehair had long oozed at the corners (but 
without falling out), he now placed with a trembling 
hand on the particular spot where his predecessor had 
once placed it; then, with an agitation diflScult to de¬ 
scribe, he pulled a bell which rang at the bed’s head of 
Joseph Lebas. When that decisive deed was done, the 
old man, to whom these memories may have been op¬ 
pressive, took out three or four bills of exchange which 
had been presented to him the day before, and was 
looking them over, but without seeing them, when 
Joseph Lebas entered the office. 

“ Sit there,” said Monsieur Guillaume, pointing to 
the stool. 

As the old master-draper had never before allowed a 
clerk to sit in his presence, Joseph trembled. 

“ What do you think of these drafts? ” asked Guil¬ 
laume. 

“ They will not be paid.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I heard yesterday that Etienne and Company were 
making their pa^^ments in gold.” 

“ Ho! ho! ” cried the draper. “ They must be very 
ill to show their bile. Let us talk of something else, 
Joseph; the inventory is finished?” 

“Yes, monsieur, and the dividend is the finest yon 
have ever had.” 


Fame and Sorrow. 


39 


“Pray don’t use those new-fangled words. Say 
‘proceeds,’ Joseph. Do you know, my boy, that we 
owe that result partly to you? Therefore, I do not 
wish you to have a salary any longer. Madame Guil¬ 
laume has put it into my head to offer you a share in 
the business. Hey, Joseph, what do you say ? ‘ Guil¬ 
laume and Lebas,’— don’t the names make a fine part¬ 
nership ? and we can add ‘ and Company ’ to complete 
the signature.” 

Tears came into Joseph’s eyes, though he tried to 
hide them. “ Ah, Monsieur Guillaume,” he said, “ how 
have I deserved such goodness ? I have only done my 
duty. It was enough that you. should even take an 
interest in a poor orph — ” 

He brushed the cuff of his left sleeve with his right 
sleeve, and dared not look at the old man, who smiled 
as he thought that this modest young fellow no doubt 
needed, as he himself once needed, to be helped and 
encouraged to make the explanation complete. 

“It is true, Joseph,” said Virginie’s father, “ that 
3’ou do not quite deserve that favor. You do not put 
as much confidence in me as I do in you” (here the 
clerk looked up hurriedly). “You know my secrets. 
For the last two years I have told you all about the 
business. I have sent you travelling to the manufac¬ 
tories. I have nothing to reproach myself with as to 
you. But you! You have a liking in your mind, and 


40 


Fame and ^Sorrow, 


3’ou have never said a word to me about it” (Joseph 
colored). Ha! ha! ” cried Guillaume, “ so you thought 
5^ou could deceive an old fox like me? Me ! when you 
knew how I predicted the Lecocq failure ! ” 

“Oh, monsieur!” replied Joseph Lebas, examining 
his master as attentively as his master examined him, 
“ is it possible that j^ou know whom I love? ” 

“I know all, you good-for-nothing fellow,” said the 
worthy and astute old dealer, twisting the lobe of the 
young man’s ear; “ and I forgive it, for I did as much 
myself.” 

“ Will 3’ou give her to me? ” 

“Yes, with a hundred and fifty thousand francs, and 
I will leave you as much more; and we will meet our 
new expenses under the new firm name. Yes, bo^^, we 
will stir up the business finety and put new life into it,” 
cried the old merchant, rising and gesticulating with 
his arms. “ There is nothing like business, son-in-law. 
Those who sneer and ask what pleasures can be found 
in it are simply fools. To have the cue of mone3-mat- 
ters, to know how to govern the market, to wait with 
the anxiety of gamblers till Etienne and Company fail, 
to see a regiment of Guards go by with our cloth on 
their backs, to trip up a neighbor, — honestly, of 
course, — to manufacture at a lower price than oth¬ 
ers, to follow up an affair when we Ve planned it, to 
watch it begin, increase, totter, and succeed, to under- 


Fame and Sorrow, 


41 


stand, like the minister of police, all the ways and 
means of all the commercial houses so as to make no 
false step, to stand up straight when others are wrecked 
and ruined, to have friends and correspondents in all the 
manufacturing towns and cities — Ha, Joseph! is n’t 
that perpetual pleasure ? I call that living! Yes, and 
I shall die in that bustle like old Chevrel himself.” 

In the heat of his allocution Fere Guillaume scarcely 
looked at his clerk, who was weeping hot tears; when 
he did so he exclaimed, “ Hey, Joseph, m}^ poor bo\’^ 
what is the matter ? ” 

“ Ah! I love her so. Monsieur Guillaume, that my 
heart fails me, I believe.” 

“ Well, m3’ bo3’,” said the old man, quite moved, 
“you are happier than 3’ou think you are; for, bj’ the 
powers, she loves you. I know it; yes, I do ! ” 

And he winked his two little green eyes as he looked 
at Joseph. 

“Mademoiselle Augustine! Mademoiselle Augus¬ 
tine ! ” cried Joseph Lebas in his excitement. He was 
about to rush out of the office when he felt himself 
grasped by an iron arm, and his astonished master 
pulled him vigorousl}" in front of him. 

“What has Augustine got to do with it?” asked 
Guillaume, in a voice that froze the unfortunate 3"oung 
man. 

“It is she — whom — I love,” stammered the clerk. 


42 


Fame and Sorrow. 


Disconcerted at his own lack of perspicacity, Guil¬ 
laume sat down and put his pointed head into his two 
hands to reflect upon the queer position in which he- 
found himself. Joseph Lebas, ashamed, mortified, and 
despairing, stood before him. 

“Joseph,” said the merchant, with cold dignity", “I 
was speaking to 3'OU of Virginie. Love is not to be 
commanded ; I know that. I trust your discretion; 
we will forget the whole matter. I shall never allow 
Augustine to be married before Virginie. Your interest 
in the business will be ten per cent.” 

The head-clerk, in whom love inspired a mysterious 
degree of courage and eloquence, clasped his hands, 
opened his lips, and spoke to Guillaume for fifteen min¬ 
utes with such ardor and deep feeling that the situation 
changed. If the matter had concerned some business 
affair the old man would have had a fixed rule by 
which to settle it; but suddenly cast upon the sea of 
feelings, a thousand miles from business and without a 
compass, he floated irresolutely before the wind of an 
event so “ out of the way,” as he kept sa3dng to him¬ 
self. Influenced by his natural paternal kindness, he 
was at the merc}^ of the waves. 

“Hey, the deuce, Joseph, you know of course that 
my two children came with ten years between them. 
Mademoiselle Chevrel was not handsome, no; but I 
never gave her any reason to complain of me. Do as 


Fame and Sorrow, 


43 


I did. Come, don’t fret, — what a goose you are! 
Perhaps we can manage it; I’ll try. There’s always 
some way to do a thing. We men are not exactly 
Celadons to our wives,—you understand, don’t 3^011? 
Madame Guillaume is pious, and— There, there, m3" 
^03"? 3"ou may give Augustine 3"0ur arm this morning 
when we go to mass.” 

Such were the sentences which Pere Guillaume scat¬ 
tered at random. The last of them filled the lover’s 
soul with jo3\ He was alread3" thinking of a friend 
who would do for Mademoiselle Virginie as he left the 
smok3" office, after pressing the hand of his future 
father-in-law and saying, in a confidential wa3", that it 
would all come right. 

“What will Madame Guillaume say?” That idea 
was terribly harrassing to the worth3" merchant when 
he found himself alone. 

At breakfast, Madame Guillaume and Virginie, whom 
the draper had left, provisionall3", in ignorance of her 
disappointment, looked at Joseph with so much mean¬ 
ing that he became greath" embarrassed. His modesty 
won him the good-will of his future mother-in-law. 
The matron grew so lively that she looked at Monsieur 
Guillaume with a smile, and allowed herself a few little 
harmless pleasantries customar3" from time immemorial 
in such innocent families. She discussed the relative 
heights of Joseph and Virginie, and placed them side 


44 


Fame and Sorrow. 


by side to be measured. These little follies brought a 
cloud to the paternal brow; in fact, the head of the 
family manifested such a sense of decorum that he 
ordered Augustine to take the arm of his head-clerk on 
their wa3^ to church. Madame Guillaume, surprised at 
so much masculine delicacy, honored her husband’s act 
with an approving nod. The procession left the house 
in an order that suggested no gossipping constructions 
to the neighbors. 

“Do you not think. Mademoiselle Augustine,” said 
the head-clerk in a trembling voice, “ that the wife of a 
merchant in high standing, like Monsieur Guillaume 
for example, ought to amuse herself rather more than 
— than your mother amuses herself ? She ought surely 
to wear diamonds, and have a carriage. As for me, if 
I should ever marry I should want to take all the cares 
myself, and see my wife happy; I should not let her sit 
at any counter of mine. You see, women are no longer 
as much needed as they used to be in draper’s shops. 
Monsieur Guillaume was quite right to do as he did, and 
besides, Madame likes it. But if a wife knows how to 
help in making up the accounts at times, and looking 
over the correspondence; if she can have an eye to a 
few details and to the orders, and manage her household, 
so as not to be idle, that’s enough. As for me, I should 
always wish to amuse her after seven o’clock, when the 
shop is closed. I should take her to the theatre and 


Fame and Sorrow* 


45 


the picture galleries, and into society, — but you are not 
listening to me.” 

“ Oh, yes I am, Monsieur Joseph. What were you 
sa3ing about painters? It is a noble art.” 

“ Yes, I know one, a master painter. Monsieur Lour- 
dois ; he makes money.” 

Thus conversing, the family reached Saint-Leu; 
there, Madame Guillaume recovered her rights. She 
made Augustine, for the first time, sit beside her; and 
Virginie took the fourth chair, next to that of Lebas. 
During the sermon all went well with Augustine and with 
Theodore, who stood behind a column and praj’ed to 
his madonna with great fervor; but when the Host was 
raised, Madame Guillaume perceived, somewhat tardily, 
that her daughter Augustine was holding her prayer- 
book upside down. She was about to scold her vigor- 
ousl}" when, suddenl}^ raising her veil, she postponed 
her lecture and looked in the direction which her daugh¬ 
ter’s ej^es had taken. With the help of her spectacles, 
she then and there beheld the 3’oung artist, whose 
fashionable clothes bespoke an officer of the armj" on 
furlough rather than a merchant belonging to the neigh¬ 
borhood. It is difficult to imagine the wrath of Madame 
Guillaume, who flattered herself she had brought up her 
daughters in perfect propriety, on detecting this clan¬ 
destine love in Augustine’s heart, the evils of which 
she magnified out of ignorance and prudery. She 


46 


Fame and Sorrow, 


concluded instantly that her daughter was rotten to 
the core. 

“In the first place, hold your book straight, made¬ 
moiselle,” she said in a low voice, but trembling with 
anger; then she snatched the tell-tale pra3"er-book, and 
turned it the right way. “Don’t dare to raise 3’our 
eyes off those prayers,” she added ; “ otherwise 3'ou will 
answer for it to me. After service, your father and I 
will have something to say to 3"Ou.” 

These words were like a thunderbolt to poor Augus¬ 
tine. She felt like fainting; but between the misery 
she endured and the fear of creating a disturbance in 
church, she gathered enough courage to hide her suffer¬ 
ing. Yet it was eas3" enough to guess the commotion 
of her mind by the way the book shook in her hands 
and b3’ the tears which fell on the pages as she turned 
them. The artist saw, from the incensed look which 
Madame Guillaume flung at him, the perils which threat¬ 
ened his love, and he left the church with rage in his 
heart, determined to dare all. 

“Go to your room, mademoiselle!” said Madame 
Guillaume when they reached home. “ Don’t dare to 
leave it; 3^ou will be called when we want 3’'ou.” 

The conference of husband and wife was held in 
secret, and at first nothing transpired. But after a 
while Virginie, who had comforted her sister with 
many tender suggestions, carried her kindness so far 


Fame and Sorrow, 


47 


as to slip clown to the door of her mother’s bedroom, 
where the discussion was taking place, hoping to over¬ 
hear a few sentences. At her first trip from the third 
to the second fioor she heard her father exclaim, 
“Madame, do you wish to kill your daughter?” 

“ My poor dear,” said Virginie, running back to her 
disconsolate sister, “ papa is defending 3'ou! ” 

“ What will they do to Theodore ? ” asked the inno¬ 
cent little thing. 

Virginie went down again; but this time she sta^^ed 
longer ; she heard that Lebas loved Augustine. 

It was decreed that on this memorable day that 
usuall}^ calm house should become a bell. Monsieur 
Guillaume brought Joseph Lebas to the verge of de¬ 
spair b}^ informing him of Augustine’s attachment to 
the artist. Lebas, who by that time had met his friend 
and advised him to ask for Mademoiselle Virginie in 
marriage, saw all his hopes overthrown. Virginie, 
overcome by the discovery that Joseph had, as it 
were, refused her, was taken with a violent headache. 
And finally, the jar between husband and wife, result¬ 
ing from the explanation they had together, when for 
the third time only in their lives they held different 
opinions, made itself felt in a really dreadful manner. 
At last, about four o’clock in the afternoon Augus¬ 
tine, pale, trembling, and with red eyes, was brought 
before her father and mother. The poor child related 


48 


Fame and Sorrow. 


artlessl}" the too brief story of her love. Eeassured by 
her father, who promised to hear her through in silence, 
she gathered enough courage to utter the name of her 
dear Theodore de Sommervieux, dwelling with some 
diplomacy on the aristocratic particle. As she yielded 
to the hitherto unknown delight of speaking out her 
feelings, she found courage to say with innocent bold¬ 
ness that she loved Monsieur de Sommervieux and had 
written to him, adding, with tears in her eyes: “It 
would make me unhapp}" for life to sacrifice me to any 
one else.” 

“ But Augustine, you do not know what a painter is,” 
cried her mother, in horror. 

“ Madame Guillaume ! ” said the old father, imposing 
silence on his wife — “ Augustine,” he went on, “ artists 
are generally poor, half-starved creatures. They squan¬ 
der what they have, and are always worthless. I know, 
for the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late Monsieur 
Lekain, and the late Monsieur Noverre were customers 
of mine. My dear, if you knew the tricks that very 
Monsieur Noverre, and Monsieur le chevalier de Saint- 
Georges, and above all. Monsieur Philidor played upon 
my predecessor Pere Chevrel! They are queer fellows, 
very queer. They all have a glib way of talking and 
fine manners. Now your Monsieur Sumer — Som — ” 

“ De Sommervieux, papa.” 

“ Well, so be it,—de Sommervieux, he never could 


Fame and Sorrow, 


49 


be as charming with j’ou as Monsieur le chevalier de 
Saint-Georges was with me the day I obtained a con¬ 
sular sentence against him. That’s how it was with 
people of good-breeding in those days.” 

‘ ‘ But papa, Monsieur Theodore is a nobleman, and 
he writes me that he is rich; his father was called the 
Chevalier de Sommervieux before the Revolution.” 

At these words Monsieur Guillaume looked at his ter¬ 
rible better-half, who was tapping her foot and keeping 
a dead silence with the air of a thwarted woman; she 
would not even cast her indignant eyes at Augustine, 
and seemed determined to leave the whole responsi¬ 
bility of the misguided affair to Monsieur Guillaume, 
inasmuch as her advice was not listened to. However, 
in spite of her apparent phlegm, she could not refrain 
from exclaiming, when she saw her husband playing 
such a gentle part in a catastrophe that was not com¬ 
mercial : “ Really, monsieur, you are as weak as your 
daughter, but — ” 

The noise of a carriage stopping before the door in¬ 
terrupted the reprimand which the old merchant was 
dreading. A moment more, and Madame Roguin was 
in the middle of the room looking at the three actors in 
the domestic drama. 

“ I know all, cousin,” she said, with a patronizing 
air. 

If Madame Roguin had a fault, it was that of think- 
4 


50 


Fame and Sorrow. 


ing that the wife of a Parisian notary could play the 
part of a great lady. 

“ I know all,” she repeated, “ and I come to Noah’s 
Ark like the dove, with an olive-branch, — I read that 
allegory in the * Genius of Christianity,’ ” she remarked, 
turning to Madame Guillaume ; “ therefore the compari¬ 
son ought to please you. Let me tell you,” she added, 
smiling at Augustine, “ that Monsieur de Sommervieux 
is a charming man. He brought me this morning a 
portrait of myself, done with a masterly hand. It is 
worth at least six thousand francs.” 

At these words she tapped lightly on Monsieur Guil¬ 
laume’s arm. The old merchant could not refrain from 
pushing out his lips in a manner that was peculiar to 
him. 

I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well,” con¬ 
tinued the dove. “ For the last fortnight he has at¬ 
tended my parties, and he is the present attraction of 
them. He told me all his troubles, and I am here on 
his behalf. I know that he adores Augustine, and is 
determined to have her. Ah! my dear cousin, don’t 
shake j^our head. Let me tell 3*011 that he is about to 
be made a baron, and that the Emperor himself, on the 
occasion of his visit to the Salon, made him a cheva¬ 
lier of the Legion of honor. Roguin is now his notary 
and knows all his affairs. Well, I can assure 3*ou that 
Monsieur de Sommervieux has good, sound property 


Fame and Sorrow. 


51 


which brings him in twelve thousand a year. Now, the 
father-in-law of a man in his position might count on 
becoming something of importance, — mayor of the 
arrondissement, for instance. Don’t you remember 
how Monsieur Dupont was made count of the Empire 
and senator merely because, as ma^^or, it was his duty 
to congratulate the Emperor on his entrance to Vienna ? 
Yes, yes, this marriage must take place. I adore the 
young man, mj^self. His behavior to Augustine is 
hardly met with now-a-days outside of a novel. Don’t 
fret, m}" dear child, you will be happ}^, and everj’body 
will envy j^ou. There’s the Duchesse de Carigliano, she 
comes to my parties and delights in Monsieur de Som- 
mervieux. Gossiping tongues do say she comes to my 
house only to meet him, —just as if a duchess of j^es- 
terday was out of place in the salon of a Chevrel whose 
family can show a hundred years of good, sound bour¬ 
geoisie behind it. Augustine,” added Madame Ro- 
guin, after a slight pause, “ I have seen the portrait. 
Heavens! it is lovely. Did you know the Emperor 
had asked to see it? He said, laughing, to the vice¬ 
chamberlain, that if he had many women like that 
at his court so many kings would flock there that he 
could easily keep the peace of Europe. Was n’t that 
flattering ? ” 

The domestic storms with which the day began were 
something like those of nature, for they were followed 


52 


Fame and Sorrow. 


by calm and serene weather. Madame Rogiiin’s argu¬ 
ments were so seductive, she managed to pull so many 
cords in the withered hearts of Monsieur and Madame 
Guillaume that she at least found one which enabled her 
to carry the da3^ At this singular period of our na¬ 
tional histor}", commerce and finance were to a greater 
degree than ever before possessed with an insane desire 
to ally themselves with the nobilitj", and the generals 
of the Empire profited immensely" bj" this sentiment. 
Monsieur Guillaume, however, was remarkable for his 
opposition to this curious passion. His favorite axioms 
were that if a woman wanted happiness she ought to 
marry a man of her own class; that persons were al¬ 
ways sooner or later punished for tr3’ing to climb too 
high ; that love could ill endure the petty anno3’ances of 
home-life, and that persons should look onl3^ for solid 
virtues in each other; that neither of the married pair 
should know more than the other, because the first 
requisite was complete mutual understanding; and that 
a husband who spoke Greek and a wife who spoke 
Latin would be certain to die of hunger. He promul¬ 
gated that last remark as a sort of proverb. He com¬ 
pared marriages thus made to those old-fashioned stuffs 
of silk and wool in which the silk always ended by wear¬ 
ing out the wool. And 3"et, there was so much vanity 
at the bottom of his heart that the prudence of the pilot 
who had guided with such wisdom the affairs of the 


Fame and Sorrow, 


63 


Cat-playing-ball succumbed to the aggressive volubil- 
it}^ of Madame Roguin. The stern Madame Guillaume 
was the first to derogate from her principles and to find 
in her daughter’s inclinations an excuse for so doing. 
She consented to receive Monsieur de Sommervieux at 
her house, resolving in her own mind to examine him 
rigorously. 

The old merchant went at once to find Joseph Lebas 
and explain to him the situation of things. At half¬ 
past six that evening the dining-room immortalized by 
the painter contained under its sk3dight Monsieur and 
Madame Roguin, the young artist and his charming 
Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who found his comfort in sub¬ 
mission, and Mademoiselle Virginie, whose headache 
had disappeared. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume 
beheld in perspective the establishment of both their 
daughters, and the certaint}" that the fortunes of the 
Cat-playing-ball were likely to pass into good hands. 
Their satisfaction was at its height when, at dessert, 
Theodore presented to them the marvellous picture, 
representing the interior of the old shop (which the\’ 
had not yet seen), to which was due the happiness of 
all present. 

“ Is n’t it pretty"! ” cried Monsieur Guillaume ; “ and 
the}’ give j’ou thirt}’ thousand francs for it ? ” 

“ Why, there are my lappets ! ” exclaimed Madame 
Guillaume. 


54 


Fame and Sorrow, 


“And the goods unfolded!” added Lebas; “you 
might take them in your hand.” 

“ All kinds of stuffs are good to paint,” replied the 
painter. “We should be only too happy, we modern 
artists, if we could approach the perfection of ancient 
draperies.” 

“Ha! so you like drapery?” cried Pere Guillaume. 
“ Shake hands, my 3’oung friend. If you value com¬ 
merce we shall soon understand each other. Why, in¬ 
deed, should persons despise it? The world began 
with trade, for did n’t Adam sell Paradise for an 
apple? It did not turn out a very good speculation, 
by the bye ! ” 

And the old merchant burst into a hearty laugh, ex¬ 
cited by the champagne which he was circulating liber¬ 
ally. The bandage over the eyes of the 3"Oung lover 
was so thick that he thought his new parents very 
agreeable. He was not above amusing them with a 
few little caricatures, all in good taste. He pleased 
every one. Later, when the party had dispersed, and 
the salon, furnished in a way that was ‘ ‘ rich and 
warm,” to use the draper’s own expression, was de¬ 
serted, and while Madame Guillaume was going about 
from table to table and from candelabra to candlestick, 
hastily blowing out the lights, the worthy merchant 
who could see clearly enough when it was a question 
of money or of business, called his daughter Augus- 


Fame and Sorrow, 55 

tine, and, placing her on his knee, made her the 
following harangue: — 

“ M}’ dear child, you shall marry your Sommervieux 
since 3*ou wish it; I give you permission to risk 3'our 
capital of happiness. But I am not taken in by those 
thirty thousand francs, said to be earned by spoiling 
good canvas. Money that comes so quickl}^ goes as 
quickl}". Didn’t I hear that young scatterbrain say this 
veiy evening that if money was coined round it was 
meant to roll? Ha! if it is round for spendthrifts, it 
is flat for economical folks who pile it up. Now, my 
child, 3’our handsome youth talks of giving you car¬ 
riages and diamonds. If he has mone}' and chooses 
to spend it on j^ou, hene sit; I have nothing to say. 
But as to what I shall give j^ou, I don’t choose that any 
of my hard-earned money shall go for carriages and 
trumpeiy. He who spends too much is never rich. 
Your dowrj" of three hundred thousand francs won’t 
buy all Paris, let me tell you ; and 3'ou need n’t reckon 
on a few hundred thousand more, for I’ll make you 
wait for them a long time yet, God willing I So I took 
3’our lover into a corner and talked to him ; and a man 
who manoeuvred the failure of Lecocq did n’t have much 
trouble in getting an artist to agree that his wife’s prop¬ 
erty should be settled on herself. I shall have an eye 
to the contract and see that he makes the proper settle¬ 
ments upon 3’ou. Now, m3’ dear, I hope 3'ou ’ll make 


56 


Fame and Sorrow, 


me a grandfather, and for that reason, faith, I’m be¬ 
ginning to think about m3" grandchildren. Swear to me, 
therefore, that 3"ou will not sign an}' paper about money 
without first consulting me ; and if I should go to rejoin 
Pere Chevrel too soon, promise me to consult Lebas, 
who is to be }'our brother-in-law. Will }'ou promise 
and swear these two things?’’ 

“ Oh, }'es, papa, I swear it.” 

At the words, uttered in a tender voice, the old man 
kissed his daughter on both cheeks. That night all the 
lovers slept as peacefully as Monsieur and Madame 
Guillaume. 

A few months after that memorable Sunda}' the high 
altar of Saint-Leu witnessed two marriages ver}^ unlike 
each other. Augustine and Theodore approached it 
beaming with happiness, their e}'es full of love, ele¬ 
gantly attired, and attended by a brilliant compan3\ 
Virginie, leaning on the arm of her father, followed 
her 3'oung sister in humbler guise, like a shadow needed 
for the harmon}’ of the picture. Monsieur Guillaume 
had taken infinite pains to so arrange the wedding that 
Virginie’s marriage should take precedence of Augus¬ 
tine’s ; but he had the grief of seeing that the higher 
and lesser clergy one and all addressed the younger 
and more elegant of the brides first. He overheard 
some of his neighbors highly commending Mademoiselle 


Fame and Sorrow, 


57 


Virginie’s good sense in making, as they said, a solid 
marriage and remaining faithful to “ the quarter ; ” and 
he also overheard a few sneers, prompted by env}', 
about Augustine who had chosen to marry an artist, a 
nobleman, coupled with a pretended fear that if the 
Guillaumes were becoming ambitious the draper’s trade 
was ruined. When an old dealer in fans declared that 
the 3'oung spendthrift would soon bring his wife to 
poverty. Monsieur Guillaume congratulated himself in 
petto for his prudence as to the marriage settlements. 

That night, after an elegant ball followed b}" one of 
those sumptuous suppers that are almost forgotten by 
the present generation. Monsieur and Madame Guil¬ 
laume remained at a house belonging to them in the rue 
du Colombier, where the wedding party took place, and 
where thej’^ intended to live in future; Monsieur and 
Madame Lebas returned in a hired coach to the rue 
Saint-Denis and took the helm of the Cat-playing-ball; 
while the artist, intoxicated with his happiness, caught 
his dear Augustine in his arms as their coupe reached 
the rue des Trois-Freres, and carried her to an apart¬ 
ment decorated with the treasures of all the arts. 

The raptures of passion to which Theodore now de¬ 
livered himself up carried the young household through 
one whole j^ear without a single cloud to dim the blue 
of the sky beneath which they lived. To such lovers 
existence brought no burden; each day some new and 


58 


Fame and Sorrow. 


exquisite Jloriture of pleasure were evolved by Theo¬ 
dore, who delighted in varying the transports of love 
with the soft languor of those rnoments of repose when 
souls float upward into ecstasy and there forget cor¬ 
poreal union. Augustine, wholly incapable of reflec¬ 
tion, gave herself up to the undulating current of her 
happiness; she felt she could not yield too much to 
the sanctioned and sacred love of marriage; simple 
and artless, she knew nothing of the coquetry of denial, 
still less of the ascendency a young girl of rank obtains 
over a husband by clever caprices; she loved too well 
to calculate the future, and never once imagined that 
so enchanting a life could come to an end. Happ}’ in 
being all the life and all the jo}" of her husband, she 
believed his inextinguishable love would forever crown 
her with the noblest of wreaths, just as her devotion 
and her obedience would remain a perpetual attraction. 
In fact, the felicity of love had made her so brilliant that 
her beauty filled her with pride and inspired her with a 
sense that she could always reign over a man so easy 
to impassion as Monsieur de Sommervieux. Thus her 
womanhood gave her no other instructions than those 
of love. In the bosom of her happiness she was still 
the ignorant little girl who lived obscurel}" in the rue 
Saint-Denis, with no thought of acquiring the manners, 
or the education, or the tone of the world in which she 
was to live. Her words were the words of love, and 


Fame and Sorrow. 


59 


there, indeed, she did displa}^ a certain suppleness of 
mind and delicacy of expression; but she was using a 
language common to all womankind when plunged into 
a passion which seems their element. If, by chance, 
Augustine gave utterance to some idea that jarred with 
those of Theodore, the artist laughed, just as we laugh 
at the first mistakes of a stranger speaking our lan¬ 
guage, though they weary us if not corrected. 

In spite of all this ardent love, Sommervieux felt, at 
the end of a year as enchanting as it had been rapid, 
the need of going back to his work and his old habits. 
Moreover, his wife was enceinte. He renewed his rela¬ 
tions with his friends. During the long year of physical 
suffering, when, for the first time, a 3’oung wife carries 
and nurses an infant, he worked, no doubt, with ardor; 
but occasionally he returned for some amusement to the 
distractions of societ}’. The house to which he pre¬ 
ferred to go was that of the Duchesse de Carigliano, 
who had finally attracted the now celebrated artist to 
her parties. 

When Augustine recovered, and her son no longer 
required assiduous cares which kept his mother from 
social life, Theodore had reached a point where self- 
love roused in him a desire to appear before the world 
with a beautiful woman whom all men should env^' and 
admire. The delight of showing herself in fashionable 
salons decked with the fame she derived from her hus- 


60 


Fame and Sorrow, 


band, was to Augustine a new harvest of pleasures, but 
it was also the last that conjugal happiness was to bring 
her. 

She began by offending her husband’s vanity; for, in 
spite of all his efforts, her ignorance, the incorrectness 
of her language, and the narrowness of her ideas, viewed 
from the standpoint of her present surroundings, were 
manifest. The character of de Sommervieux, held in 
check for nearly two years and a half by the first trans¬ 
ports of love, now took, under the calm of a possession 
no longer fresh, its natural bent, and he returned to the 
habits which had for a time been diverted from their 
course. Poetry, painting, and the exquisite enjoyments 
of the imagination possess inalienable rights over minds 
that can rise to them. These needs had not been balked 
in Theodore during those two and a half years ; they 
had simply found another nourishment. When the 
fields of love were explored, when the artist, like the 
children, had gathered the roses and the wake-robins 
wdth such eagerness that he did not notice his hands 
were full, the scene changed. It now happened that 
when the artist showed his wife a sketch of his most 
beautiful compositions, he took notice that she answered, 
in the tone of Monsieur Guillaume, “ Oh, how prett}'! ” 
Such admiration, without the slightest warmth, did not 
come, he felt, from an inward feeling, it was the ex¬ 
pression of blind love. Augustine preferred a glance 


Fame and Sorrow, 


61 


of love to the noblest work of art. The only sublimity 
she was able to perceive was that in her own heart. 

At last Theodore could not blind himself to the evi¬ 
dence of a bitter truth; his wife had no feeling for 
poetry; she could not live in his sphere of thought; 
she could not follow in the flight of his caprices, his 
impulses, his joys, his sorrows; she walked the earth 
in a real world, while his head sought the heavens. 
Ordinary minds cannot appreciate the ever-springing 
sufferings of one who, being united to another by the 
closest of all ties, is compelled to drive back within his 
own soul the precious overflow of his thoughts, and to 
crush into nothingness the images which some magic 
force compels him to create. To such a one the tor¬ 
ture is the more cruel when his feeling for his com¬ 
panion commands him, as his first duty, to keep nothing 
from her, neither the outcome of his thoughts nor the 
eflfusions of his soul. The will of nature is not to be 
evaded; it is inexorable, like necessit}^, which is, as it 
were, a sort of social law. Sommervieux took refuge in 
the silence and solitude of his studio, hoping that the 
habit of living among artists might train his wife and 
develop the benumbed germs of mind which all superior 
souls believe to exist in other souls. 

But, alas, Augustine was too sincerely religious not 
to be frightened at the tone of the artist-world. At the 
first dinner given by Theodore, a young painter said to 


62 


Fame and Sorrow, 


her, with a juvenile light-heartedness she was unable to 
understand, but which really absolves all jests about 
religion: “Why, madame, 3^our paradise is not as 
glorious as Eaffaelle’s Transfiguration, but I get a little 
tired of looking even at that.” Augustine, conse¬ 
quently, met this brilliant and artistic society in a 
spirit of disapproval, which was at once perceived. 
She became a constraint upon it. When artists are 
constrained they are pitiless; they either fly, or they 
sta}^ and scoff. 

Madame Guillaume had, among other absurdities, 
that of magnifying the dignity she considered to be 
an appanage of a married woman; and though Augus¬ 
tine had often laughed about it she was unable to keep 
herself from a slight imitation of the maternal prudeiy. 
This exaggeration of purity, which virtuous women do 
not always escape, gave rise to a few harmless carica¬ 
tures and epigrams, innocent nonsense in good taste, 
with which de Sommervieux could scarcely be angr3% 
In fact, such jests were only reprisals on the part of his 
friends. Still, nothing could be really a jest to a soul 
so ready as that of Theodore to receive impressions 
from without. Thus he was led, perhaps insensibfy, 
to a coldness of feeling which went on increasing. 
Whoso desires to reach perfect conjugal happiness 
must climb a mountain along a narrow way close to 
a sharp and slippery precipice; down that precipice 


Fame and Sorrow, 


63 


the artist’s love now slid. He believed his wife in¬ 
capable of understanding the moral considerations 
which justified, to his mind, the course he now adopted 
towards her; and he thought himself innocent in hid¬ 
ing thoughts she could not comprehend, and in doing 
acts which could never be justified before the tribunal 
of her commonplace conscience. 

Augustine retired into gloomy and silent sorrow. 
These secret feelings drew a veil between the married 
pair which grew thicker day by day. Though her hus¬ 
band did not cease his attentions to her, Augustine 
could not keep from trembling when she saw him reserv¬ 
ing for society- the treasures of mind and charm which 
he had hitherto bestowed on her. Soon she took 
fatally to heart the lively talk she heard in the world 
about man’s inconstanc3\ She made no complaint, but 
her whole bearing was equivalent to a reproach. Three 
3"ears after her marriage this 3’oung and pretty woman, 
who seemed so brilliant in her brilliant equipage, who 
lived in a sphere of fame and wealth, alwaj^s envied by 
careless and unobserving people who never rightly esti¬ 
mate the situations of life, was a prey to bitter grief; 
her color faded ; she refiected, she compared ; and then, 
at last, sorrow revealed to her the axioms of experience. 

She resolved to maintain herself courageousl}" within 
the circle of her duty, hoping that such generous con¬ 
duct would, sooner or later, win back her husband’s 


64 


Fame and Sorrow. 


love ; but it was not to be. When Sommervieux, tired 
of work, left his studio, Augustine never hid her work 
so quickly that the artist did not see her mending the 
household linen or his own with the minute care of a good 
housekeeper. She supplied, generously and without a 
word, the money required for her husband’s extrava¬ 
gances ; but in her desire to save her dear Theodore’s 
own fortune she was too economical on herself and on 
certain details of the housekeeping. Such conduct is 
incompatible with the free and easy waj’s of artists, 
who, when they reach the end of their tether, have 
enjoyed life so much that they never ask the reason 
of their ruin. 

It is useless to note each lowered tone of color 
through which the brillianc}" of their honej^moon faded 
and then expired, leaving them in deep darkness. 
One evening poor Augustine, who had lately heard her 
husband speaking with enthusiasm of the Duchesse de 
Carigliano, received some ill-natured information on the 
nature of de Sommervieux’s attachment to that cele¬ 
brated coquette of the imperial court. At twenty-one, 
in the glow of youth and beaut}^, Augustine learned she 
was betrayed for a woman of thirty-six. Feeling herself 
wretched in the midst of society and of fetes that were 
now a desert to her, the poor little creature no longer 
noticed the admiration she excited nor the envy she in¬ 
spired. Her face took another expression. Sorrow laid 


Fame and Sorrow, 


65 


upon each feature the gentleness of resignation and the 
pallor of rejected love. It was not long before men, 
known for their seductive powers, courted her; but she 
remained solitary and virtuous. A few contemptuous 
words which escaped her husband brought her to intol¬ 
erable despair. Fatal gleams of light now showed her 
the points where, through the pettiness of her educa¬ 
tion, complete union between her soul and that of 
Theodore had been prevented ; and her love was great 
enough to absolve him and blame herself. She wept 
tears of blood as she saw, too late, that there are ill- 
assorted marriages of minds as well as of habits and of 
ranks. 

Thinking over the spring-tide happiness of their 
union, she comprehended the fulness of her past 
joj’S, and admitted to her own soul that so rich a 
harvest of love was indeed a lifetime which might 
well be paid for b}* her present sorrow. And 3’et she 
loved with too single a mind to lose all hope ; and she 
was brave enough at one-and-twent}" to endeavor to 
educate herself and make her imagination more worthy 
of the one she so admired. “ If I am not a poet,” she 
said in her heart, “at least I will understand poetry.” 
Employing that force of will and energy which all 
women possess when the}" love, Madame de Sommer- 
vieux attempted to change her nature, her habits, and 
her ideas; but though she read many volumes and 

5 


66 


Fame and Sorrow, 


studied with the utmost courage, she onl}^ succeeded in 
making herself less ignorant. Quickness of mind and 
the charms of conversation are gifts of nature or the 
fruits of an education begun in the cradle. She could 
appreciate music and enjo}^ it, but she could not sing 
with taste. She understood literature and even the 
beauties of poetry, but it was too late to train her re¬ 
bellious memory. She listened with interest to con¬ 
versation in society, but she contributed nothing to it. 
Her religious ideas and the prejudices of her earl^^ 
youth prevented the complete emancipation of her mind. 
And besides all this, a bias against her which she could 
not conquer had, little by little, glided into her hus¬ 
band’s mind. The artist laughed in his heart at tliose 
who praised his wife to him, and his laughter was not 
unfounded. Embarrassed by her strong desire to please 
him, she felt her mind and her knowledge melt away in 
his presence. Even her fidelity displeased the unfaith¬ 
ful husband ; it seemed as though he would fain see 
her guilty of wrong when he complained of her virtue as 
unfeeling. Augustine struggled hard to abdicate her 
reason, to 3ield and bend to the fancies and caprices of 
her husband, and to devote her whole life to soothe the 
egotism of his vanity, — she never gathered the fruit of 
her sacrifices. Perhaps they had each let the moment 
go by when souls can comprehend each other. The day 
came when the too-sensitive heart of the young wife 


Fame and Sorrow. 


67 


received a blow, — one of those shocks which strain 
the ties of feeling so far that it seems as though they 
snapped. At first she isolated herself. But soon the 
fatal thought entered her mind to seek advice and con¬ 
solation from her own famil3\ 

According!}’, one morning earl}", she drove to the 
grotesque entrance of the silent and gloomy house in 
which her childhood had been passed. She sighed as 
she looked at the window from which she had sent a 
first kiss to him who had filled her life with fame and 
sorrow. Nothing was changed in those cavernous pre¬ 
cincts, except that the business had taken a new lease 
of life. Augustine’s sister sat behind the counter in 
her mother’s old place. The poor afflicted woman met 
her brother-in-law with a pen behind his ear, and he 
hardly listened to her, so busy was he. The alarming 
signs of an approaching “ inventory ” were evident, and 
in a few moments he left her, asking to be excused. 

Her sister received her rather coldly, and showed 
some ill-will. In fact, Augustine in her palmy days, 
brilliant in happiness and driving about in a pretty 
equipage, had never come to see her sister except in 
passing. The wife of the prudent Lebas now imag¬ 
ined that money was the cause of this early visit, and 
she assumed a reserved tone, which made Augustine 
smile. The artist’s wife saw that her mother had a 
counterpart (except for the lappets of her cap) who 


68 


Fame and Sorrow, 


would keep up the antique dignity of the Cat-play¬ 
ing-ball. At breakfast, however, she noticed certain 
changes which did honor to the good sense of Joseph 
Lebas, — the clerks no longer rose and went away at 
dessert; they were allowed to use their faculty of 
speech, and the abundance on the table showed ease 
and comfort, without luxury. The j^oung woman of 
society noticed the coupons of a box at the Fran^ais, 
where she remembered having seen her sister from 
time to time. Madame Lebas wore a cashmere shawl 
over her shoulders, the elegance of which was a sign 
of the generosity with which her husband treated 
her. In short, the pair were advancing with their 
century. 

Augustine was deeply moved to see, during the 
course of the day, man}" signs of a calm and equable 
happiness enjoyed by this well-assorted couple, — a 
happiness without exaltation, it was true, but also 
without peril. They had taken life as a commer¬ 
cial enterprise, in which their first duty was to honor 
their business. Not finding in her husband any great 
warmth of love, Virginie had set to work to pro¬ 
duce it. Led insensibly to respect and to cherish his 
wife, the time it took for their wedded happiness to 
blossom now seemed to Joseph Lebas as a pledge of its 
duration; so, when the sorrowful Augustine told her 
tale of trouble, she was forced to endure a deluge of the 


Fame and Sorrow, 69 

commonplace ideas which the ethics of the rue Saint- 
Denis suggested to Virginie. 

“ The evil is done, wife,” said Joseph Lehas; “we 
must now try to give our sister the best advice.” 
Whereupon, the able man of business ponderously ex¬ 
plained the relief that the laws and established customs 
might give to Augustine, and so enable her to sur¬ 
mount her troubles. He numbered, if we may so 
express it, all the considerations; ranged them in 
categories, as though they were goods of different 
qualities; then he put them in the scales, weighed 
them, and finally came to the conclusion that necessity 
required his sister-in-law to take a firm stand, — a 
decision which did not satisfy the love she still felt 
for her husband, a feeling that was reawakened in full 
force when she heard Lebas discussing judicial methods 
of asserting her rights. Augustine thanked her two 
friends and returned home, more undecided than before 
she consulted them. 

The next day she ventured to the house in the rue 
du Colombier, intending to confide her sorrows to her 
father and mother, for she was like those hopelessly ill 
persons who try all remedies in sheer despair, even the 
recipes of old women. Monsieur and Madame Guil¬ 
laume received their daughter with a warmth that 
touched her; the visit brought an interest which, to 
them, was a treasure. For four years they had fioated 


70 


Fame and Sorrow. 


on the sea of life like navigators without chart or com¬ 
pass. Sitting in their chimney-corner, the}" told each 
other again and again the disasters of the maximum ; 
the story of their first purchases of cloth, the manner in 
which they escaped bankruptcy, and above all, the tale 
of the famous Lecocq failure, old Guillaume’s battle of 
Marengo. Then, when these stock stories were ex¬ 
hausted, they recapitulated the profits of their most 
productive years, or reminded each other of the gossip 
of the Saint-Denis quarter. At two o’clock Pere Guil¬ 
laume invariably went out to give an eye to the estab¬ 
lishment of the Cat-playing-ball; on his wa}" back he 
stopped at all the shops which were formerly his rivals, 
whose young proprietors now endeavored to inveigle 
the old merchant into speculative investments which, 
according to his usual custom, he never positively de¬ 
clined. Two good Norman horses were dying of pleth¬ 
ora in the stable, but Madame Guillaume never used 
them except to be conve3"ed on Sundaj’s to high mass 
at the parish church. Three times a week the worthy 
couple kept open table. 

Thanks to the infiuence of his son-in-law, de Som- 
mervieux, Pere Guillaume had been appointed member 
of the advisory committee on the equipment of troops. 
Ever since her husband had held that high post under 
government, Madame Guillaume had felt it her dut}’ to 
maintain its dignity; her rooms were therefore encum- 


Fame and Sorrow, 


71 


bercd with so many ornaments of gold and silver, so 
much tasteless though costly furniture, that the sim¬ 
plest of them looked like a tawdry chapel. Kconomy 
and prodigality seemed fighting for precedence in all 
the accessories of the house. It really looked as if old 
Guillaume Lad considered the purchase of everything in 
it, down to a candlestick, as an investment. In the 
midst of this bazaar, de Sommervieux’s famous picture 
held the place of honor, and was a source of consola¬ 
tion to Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, who turned 
their spectacled eyes twenty times a day on that tran¬ 
script of their old life, to them so active and so 
exciting. 

The appearance of the house and of these rooms 
where all things had an odor of old age and mediocritj', 
the spectacle of the two old people stranded on a rock 
far from the real world and the ideas that move it, sur- 
2:)rised and affected Augustine ; she recognized the sec¬ 
ond half of the picture which had struck her so forcibly 
at the house of Joseph Lebas, —that of an active life 
without movement, a sort of mechanical and instinctive 
existence, like that of rolling on castors; and there 
came into her mind a sense of pride in her sorrow^s as 
she remembered how they sprang from a happiness of 
eighteen months duration, worth more to her than a 
thousand existences like this, the void of which now 
seemed to her horrible. But she hid the rather un- 


72 


Fame and Sorrow, 


kindly thought, and displayed her new qualities of mind 
to her old parents and the endearing tenderness which 
love had taught her, hoping to win them to listen favor¬ 
ably to her matrimonial trials. 

Old people delight in such confidences. Madame 
Guillaume wished to hear the minutest particulars of 
that strange life which, to her, was almost fabulous. 
“ The Travels of the Baron de La Houtan,” which she 
had begun many times and never finished, had revealed 
to her nothing more inconceivable among the savages 
of Canada. 

“ But, my dear child,” she said, “ do 3’ou mean to 
say that 3'Our husband shuts himself up with naked 
women, and you are simple enough to believe he paints 
them ? ” With these words she laid her spectacles on 
a work-table, shook out her petticoats, and laid her 
clasped hands on her knees, raised b}" a foot-warmer, — 
her favorite attitude. 

“But, m}^ dear mother, all painters are obliged to 
employ' models.” 

“ He took care not to tell us that when he asked 3’ou 
in marriage. If I had known it I would never have 
given my daughter to a man with such a trade. Re¬ 
ligion forbids such horrors; the3" are immoral. What 
time of night do 3'ou sa3’ he comes home ? ” 

“ Oh, at one o’clock, — or two, perhaps.” 

The old people looked at each other in amazement. 


Fame and Sorrow, 


73 


“ Then he gambles,” said Monsieur Guillaume. “ In 
my day it was only gamblers who stayed out so late.” 

Augustine made a little face to deny the accusation. 

“You must suffer dreadfully waiting for him,” said 
Madame Guillaume. “ But no, 3’ou go to bed, I hope, 
— don’t 3’ou ? Then when he has gambled away all his 
mone}^ the monster comes home and wakes you up ? ” 

“ No, mother ; on the contraiy, he is sometimes veiy 
ga}"; indeed, when the weather is fine, he often asks 
me to get up and go into the woods with him.’^ 

“ Into the woods ! — at that hour? Your house must 
be veiy small if he has n’t room enough in it to stretch 
his legs I No, no, it is to give 3’ou cold that the villain 
makes such proposals as that; he wants to get rid of 
3*ou. Did an3' one ever know a decent man with a 
home of his own and a steady business galloping round 
like a were-wolf! ” 

“ But, my dear mother, you don’t understand that he 
needs excitements to develop his genius. He loves the 
scenes which — ” 

“ Scenes ! I’d make him fine scenes, I would,” cried 
Madame Guillaume, interrupting her daughter. “ How 
can 3'ou keep on any terms at all with such a man ? 
And I don’t like that idea of his drinking nothing but 
water. It is n’t wholesome. Why does he dislike to 
see women eat? what a strange notion ! He’s a mad¬ 
man, that’s what he is. All that you say of him proves 


74 


Fame and Sorrow. 


it. No sane man leaves his home without a word, and 
stays away ten da3’s. He told j’ou he went to Dieppe 
to paint the sea ! How can an^' one paint the sea ? He 
told you such nonsense to blind 3’ou.” 

Augustine opened her lips to defend her husband, 
but Madame Guillaume silenced her w'ith a motion of 
her hand which the old habit of obedience led her to 
obe3', and the old woman continued, in a sharp voice : 
“ Don’t talk to me of that man. He never set foot in 
a church except to many 3'ou. Persons who have no 
religion are capable of an3dhing. Did 3'our father ever 
venture to hide anything from me, or keep silent three 
days without sa3’ing boo to me, and then begin to chatter 
like a blind magpie? No ! ” 

“M3" dear mother, 3'ou judge superior men too se- 
verel3^ If they had ideas like other people they would 
not be men of genius.” 

“ Well ! then men of genius should keep to them¬ 
selves and not many. Do you mean to tell me that a 
man can make his wife miserable, and if he has got 
genius it is all right? Genius! I don’t see much 
genius in saying a thing is black and white in the same 
breath, and ramming people’s words down their throats, 
and lording it over his famil3’, and never letting his 
wife know how to take him, and forbidding her to amuse 
herself unless monsieur, forsooth, is ga3", and forcing 
her to be gloom3" as soon as he is — ” 


Fame and Sorrow. 


75 


“Blit, my dear mother, the reason for all such 
imaginations — ” 

“What do 3’ou mean all such imaginations?” 
cried Madame Guillaume, again interrupting her daugh¬ 
ter. “He has fine ones, faith! What sort of man 
is he who takes a notion, without consulting a doctor, 
to eat nothing but vegetables ? If he did it out of piety, 
such a diet might do him some good; but he has no 
more religion than a Huguenot. Who ever saw a man 
in his senses love a horse better than he loves his neigh¬ 
bor, and have his hair curled like a pagan image, and 
cover his statues with muslin, and shut up the windows 
in the daytime to work by lamplight? Come, come, 
don’t talk to me ; if he were not so grossly immoral he 
ought to be put in the insane asylum. You had better 
consult Monsieur Loraux, the vicar of Saint-Sulpice; 
ask him what he thinks of all this. He’ll tell you that 
your husband does n’t behave like a Christian man.” 

Oh ! mother, how can you think — ” 

“Think! yes I do think it! You used to love him 
and therefore you don’t see these things. But I re¬ 
member how I saw him, not long after your marriage, 
in the Champs-Elysees. He was on horseback. Well, 
he galloped at full speed for a little distance, then he 
stopped and went at a snail’s pace. I said to myself 
then, ‘ There’s a man who has no sense.’ ” 

“ Ah ! ” cried Monsieur Guillaume, rubbing his hands, 


76 


Fame and Sorrow, 


“ what a good thing it is I had 3’our property' settled on 
5’oiirself.” 

After Augustine had the imprudence to explain her 
real causes of complaint against her husband the two 
old people were silent with indignation. Madame Guil¬ 
laume uttered the word divorce.” It seemed to awaken 
the now inactive old business-man. Moved by his love 
for his daughter and also b3' the excitement such a step 
W’ould give to his eventless life, Pere Guillaume roused 
himself to action. He demanded divorce, talked of 
managing it, argued the pros and cons, and promised 
his daughter to pa3" all the costs, engage the law3'ers, 
see the judges, and move heaven and earth. Madame 
de Sommervieux, much alarmed, refused his services 
declaring she w'ould not separate from her husband 
were she ten times more unhappy than she was, and 
saying no more about her sorrows. After the old peo¬ 
ple had endeavored, but in vain, to soothe her with 
man3^ little silent and consoling attentions, Augustine 
went home feeling the impossibilit3" of getting narrow 
minds to take a just view of superior men. She learned 
then that a wife should hide from all the world, even 
from her parents, the sorrows for which it is so difficult 
to obtain true sympathy. The storms and the suffer¬ 
ings of the higher spheres of human existence are com¬ 
prehended only by the noble minds which inhabit them. 
In all things, we can be justly judged only by our equals. 


Fame and Sorrow. 


77 


Thus poor Augustine found herself once more in the 
cold atmosphere of her home, cast back into the hor¬ 
rors of her lonel}’ meditations. Study no longer availed 
her, for study had not restored her husband’s heart. 
Initiated into the secrets of those souls of fire but 
deprived of their resources, she entered deeply into 
their trials without sharing their jo^ s. She became dis¬ 
gusted with the world, which seemed to her small and 
petty indeed in presence of events born of passion. 
In short, life to her was a failure. 

One evening a thought came into her mind which il¬ 
luminated the dark regions of her grief with a gleam 
of celestial light. Such a thought could have smiled 
into no heart that was less pure and guileless than hers. 
She resolved to go to the Duchesse de Carigliano, not to 
ask for the heart of her husband, but to learn from that 
great lady the arts which had taken him from her; to 
interest that proud woman of the world in the mother 
of her friend’s children ; to soften her, to make her the 
accomplice of her future peace, just as she was now the 
instrument of her present sorrow. 

So, one da3% the timid Augustine, armed with super¬ 
natural courage, got into her carriage about two o’clock 
in the afternoon, intending to make her way into the 
boudoir of the celebrated lady, who was never visible 
until that time of day. 

Madame de Sommervieux had never yet seen any of 


78 


Fame and Sorrow, 


the old and sumptuous mansions of the faubourg Saint- 
Germain. When she passed through the majestic ves¬ 
tibule, the noble stairways, the vast salons, filled with 
flowers in spite of the inclemencies of the season, and 
decorated with the natural taste of women born to opu¬ 
lence or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy, Augus¬ 
tine was conscious of a terrible constriction of her heart. 
She envied the secrets of an elegance of which till then 
she had had no idea; she inhaled a breath of grandeur 
which explained to her the charm that house possessed 
over her husband. 

When she reached the private apartments of the 
duchess she felt both jealousy and despair as she noted 
the voluptuous arrangement of the furniture, the dra¬ 
peries, the hangings upon the walls. There, disorder 
was a grace; there, luxury affected disdain of mere 
richness. The perfume of this soft atmosphere pleased 
the senses without annoying them. The accessories of 
these rooms harmonized with the vista of gardens and 
a lawn planted with trees seen through the windows. 
All was seductive, and yet no calculated seduction was 
felt. The genius of the mistress of these apartments 
pervaded the salon in which Augustine now awaited her. 
Madame de Sommervieux endeavored to guess the 
character of her rival from the objects about the room ; 
but there was something impenetrable in its disorder as 
in its symmetry, and to the guileless Augustine it was 


Fame and Sorrow. 


79 


a sealed book. All that she could reallj' make out was 
that the duchess was a superior woman as woman. The 
discovery brought her a painful thought. 

“ Alas ! can it be true,’^ she said to herself, “ that a 
simple and loving heart does not suffice an artist? and to 
balance the weight of their strong souls must the}’ be 
joined to feminine souls whose force is equal to their 
own? If I had been brought up like this siren our 
weapons at least would have been matched for the 
struggle.” 

But I am not at home!” The curt, sharp words, 
though said in a low voice in the adjoining boudoir, were 
overheard by Augustine, whose heart throbbed, 

“ The lady is here,” said the waiting-woman. 

“You are crazy ! Show her in,” added the duchess, 
changing her voice to a cordially polite tone. Evident^ 
she expected then to be overheard. 

Augustine advanced timidly. At the farther end of 
the cool boudoir she saw the duchess luxuriously reclin¬ 
ing on a brown-velvet ottoman placed in the centre of a 
species of half-circle formed by folds of muslin draped 
over a yellow ground. Ornaments of gilded bronze, 
arranged with exquisite taste, heightened still further 
the effect of the dais under which the duchess posed 
like an antique statue. The dark color of the velvet 
enabled her to lose no means of seduction. A soft 
chiaro-scuro, favorable to her beauty, seemed more a 


80 


Fame and Sorrow. 


reflection than a light. A few choice flowers lifted their 
fragrant heads from the Sevres vases. As this scene 
caught the ej’e of the astonished Augustine she came 
forward so quickly and softlj’’ that she surprised a 
glance from the ej’es of the enchantress. That glance 
seemed to sa}’ to a person whom at first the painter’s 
wife could not see: “Wait; j^ou shall see a pretty 
woman, and help me to put up with a tiresome visit.” 

As Augustine advanced the duchess rose, and made 
her sit beside her. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, ma* 
dame ? ” she said, with a smile full of charm. 

“Why so false?” thought Augustine, who merely 
bowed her head. 

Silence was a necessitj^; for the 3’oung woman now 
saw a witness to the interview in the person of an 
officer of the army, — the 3'oungest, and most elegant 
and dashing of the colonels. His clothes, which were 
those of a civilian, set off the graces of his person. 
His face, full of life and j^outh and ver^’ expressive, 
was still further enlivened by small moustachios, black 
as jet and waxed to a point, b}’ a well-trimmed im¬ 
perial, carefully combed whiskers and a forest of black 
hair which was somewhat in disorder. He played with 
a riding-whip and showed an ease and freedom of man¬ 
ner which agreed well with the satisfied expression of 
his face and the elegance of his dress; the ribbons in 


Fame and Sorrow. 


81 


bis buttonhole were carelessly knotted and he seemed 
more vain of his appearance than of his courage. 
Augustine looked at the Duchesse de Carigliano, with 
a glance at the colonel in which many prayers were 
included. 

“ Well, adieu, Monsieur d’Aiglemont; we shall meet 
in the Bois de Boulogne,” said the siren, in a tone as 
if the words were the result of some agreement made 
before Augustine entered the room; she accompanied 
them with a threatening glance, which the officer de¬ 
served, perhaps, for the undisguised admiration with 
which he looked at the modest flower who contrasted 
so admirably with the haughty duchess. The 3'oung 
danS}" bowed in silence, turned on the heels of his 
boots, and gracefullj’ left the room. At that moment 
Augustine, watching her rival whose eyes followed the 
brilliant officer, caught sight of a sentiment the fugitive 
expressions of which are known to ever}" woman. She 
saw with bitter sorrow that her visit would be useless ; 
the artful duchess was too eager for homage not to have 
a pitiless heart. 

“ Madame,” said Augustine, in a broken voice, “ the 
step I now take will seem very strange to you ; but de¬ 
spair has its madness, and that is my excuse. I can 
now understand only too well why Theodore prefers 
your house to mine, and how it is that your mind 
should exercise so great an empire over him. Alas 1 

6 


82 Fame and Sorrow, 

I have but to look within m3^self to find reasons tliat 
are more than sufficient. But 1 adore my husband, 
madame. Two years of sorrow have not changed the 
love of my heart, though I have lost his. In my 
madness I have dared to believe that I might struggle 
against you ; I have come to you to be told by what 
means I can triumph over you. Oh, madame! ” cried 
the young woman, seizing the hand which her rival 
allowed her to take, “ never will I pray God for m}^ 
own happiness with such fervor as I will pray to him 
for yours, if you will help me to recover, I will not 
say the love, but the friendship of my husband. I have^ 
no longer any hope except in 3'ou. Ah ! tell me how 
it is 3'ou have won him, and made him forget the earl3’' 
days of—” 

At these words Augustine, choking with her sobs, 
was compelled to pause. Ashamed of her weakness, 
she covered her face with a handkerchief that wms wet 
with tears. 

“ Ah, what a child you are, m3' dear little lady! 
said the duchess, fascinated b3' the novelt3^ of the 
scene and touched in spite of herself at receiving such 
homage from as perfect a virtue as there was in Paris, 
taking the 3'oung wife’s handkerchief and herself dry¬ 
ing her tears and soothing her with a few murmured 
monosyllables of graceful pit3'. 

After a moment’s silence the accomplished coquette. 


Fame and Sorrow, 


83 


clasping poor Augustine’s pretty hands in her own, 
which had a rare character of noble beauty and power, 
said, in a gentle and even affectionate voice : “ My first 
advice will be not to weep ; tears are unbecoming. We 
must learn how to conquer sorrows which make us ill, 
for love wdll not stay long on a bed of pain. Sadness 
may at first bestow a certain charm which pleases a 
man, but it ends by sharpening the features and 
fading the color of the sweetest face. And remember, 
our tyrants have the self-love to require that their 
slaves shall be always gay.” 

“ Ah, madame! is it within my power to cease feel¬ 
ing? How is it possible not to die a thousand deaths 
when we see a face which once shone for us with love 
and joy, now harsh, and cold, and indifferent ? No, I 
cannot control my heart.” 

“ So much the worse for you, my poor dear. But I 
think I already know your history. In the first place, 
be very sure that if your husband has been unfaithful 
to 3’ou, I am not his accomplice. If I made a point of 
attracting him to my salon, it was, I freely confess, out 
of vanity; he was famous, and he went nowhere. I 
like you too well already to tell 3*ou all the follies he has 
committed for me. But I shall reveal one of them be¬ 
cause it ma3' perhaps help us to bring him back to 3*011, 
and to punish him for the audacity he has latety shown 
in his proceedings toward me. He will end b3^ com- 


84 


Fame and Sorrow, 


promising me. I know the world too well, my dear, 
to put myself at the mere}’ of a superior man. Believe 
me, it is veiy well to let them court us, but to marry 
them is a blunder. e women should admire men of 
genius, enjoy them as we would a play, but live with 
them — never! No, no! it is like going behind the 
scenes and seeing the machinery, instead of sitting in 
our boxes and enjoying the illusions. But with you, 
my poor child, the harm is done, is it not? Well, 
then, you must try to arm yourself against tyrann}".” 

“ Ah, madame, as I entered this house and before I 
saw you I became aware of certain arts that I never 
suspected.” 

“ Well, come and see me sometimes, and you will 
soon learn the science of such trifles, — reallj^ impor¬ 
tant, however, in their effects. External things are to 
fools more than one half of life ; and for that reason 
more than one man of talent is a fool in spite of his 
superiority. I will venture to lay a wager that you 
have never refused anything to Theodore.” 

“ How can we refuse anything to those we love? ” 

“ Poor, innocent child ! I adore your foll}^ Let me 
tell 3^ou that the more we love the less we should let a 
man, specially a husband, see the extent of our passion. 
Whoever loves the most is certain to be the one that is 
tyrannized over, and, worse than all, deserted sooner 
or later. Whoever desires to reign must — ” 


Fame and Sorrow, 


85 


Oh, madame, must we all dissimulate, calculate, be 
false at heart, make ourselves an artificial nature, and 
forever? Oh, who could live thus? Could 3'ou — 

She hesitated ; the duchess smiled. 

“ dear,” resumed the great lady in a grave tone, 
“ conjugal happiness has been from time immemorial a 
speculation, a matter which required particular stud}'. 
If 3'ou persist in talking passion while I am talking 
marriage we shall never understand each other. Listen 
to me,” she continued, in a confidential tone. “ I have 
been in the waj' of seeing many of the superior men of 
our da}'. Those of them who married chose, with few 
exceptions, women who were ciphers. Well, those 
women have governed them just as the Emperor gov¬ 
erns us, and they have been, if not beloved, at least 
always respected by them. I am fond of secrets, 
especially those that concern our sex, and to amuse 
myself I have sought the key to that riddle. Well, 
my dear little angel, it is this,—those good women 
knew enough to analyze the characters of their hus¬ 
bands ; without being frightened, as you have been, 
at their superiority, they have cleverly discovered the 
qualities those men lacked, and whether they them¬ 
selves had them or only feigned to have them, they 
found means to make such a show of those very qual¬ 
ities before the eyes of their husbands that they ended 
by mastering them. Remember one thing more : those 


86 


Fame and Sorrow, 


souls which seem so great all have a little grain of folly 
ill them, and it is our business to make the most of it. 
If we set our wills to rule them and let nothing deter 
us, but concentrate all our actions, our ideas, our fas¬ 
cinations upon that, we can master those eminently 
capricious minds,— for the veiy inconstancj- of their 
thoughts gives us the means of influencing them.” 

“Oh!” cried the young wife, horror-struck, “can 
that be life ? Then it is a battle — ” 

“ —in which whoso would win must threaten,” said 
the duchess laughing. “ Our power is artificial. Con¬ 
sequently we should never let a man despise us; we 
can never rise after such a fall except through vile" 
manoeuvres. Come,” she added, “I will give you the 
means to hold your husband in chains.” 

She rose, and guided her young and innocent pupil 
in conjugal wiles through the lab^udnths of her little 
palace. They came presently to a private staircase 
W'hich communicated with the state apartments. When 
the duchess touched the secret lock of the door she 
stopped, looked at Augustine with an inimitable air of 
wiliness and grace, and said, smiling: “My dear, the 
Due de Carigliano adores me,—well, he w^ould not dare 
to enter this door without my permission. Yet he is a 
man who has the habit of command over thousands of 
soldiers. He can face a battery, but in my presence — 
he is afraid.” 


Fame and Sorrow, 


87 


Augustine siglied. They reached a noble gallery, 
where the duchess led the painter’s wife before the 
portrait Theodore had once made of Mademoiselle 
Guillaume. At sight of it Augustine uttered a cry. 

“I knew it was no longer in the house,” she said, 
‘ ‘ but — here ! ” 

“My dear child, I exacted it only to see how far 
the folly of a man of genius would go. I intended to 
return it to you sooner or later; for I did not expect 
the pleasure of seeing the original standing before the 
copy. I will have the picture taken to your carriage 
while we finish our conversation. If, armed with that 
talisman, you are not mistress of your husband during 
the next hundred years, 3’ou are not a woman and you 
deserve 3'our fate.” 

Augustine kissed the hand of the great lad\', who 
pressed her to her heart with all the more tenderness 
because she was certain to have forgotten her on the 
morrow. This scene might have destroyed forever 
the puritj" and candor of a less virtuous woman than 
Augustine, to whom the secrets revealed by the duchess 
could have been either salutaiy or fatal; but the astute 
policy’ of the higher social spheres suited Augustine as 
little as the narrow reasoning of Joseph Lebas or the 
sill}" morality of Madame Guillaume. Strange result 
of the false positions into which we are thrown by the 
even trivial mistakes we make in life! Augustine was 


88 


Fame and Sorrow, 


like an Alpine herdsman overtaken by an avalanche; 
if he hesitates, or listens to the cries of his comrades, 
he is lost. In these great crises the heart either breaks 
or hardens. 

Madame de Sommervieux returned home a prey to 
an agitation it is difficult to describe. Her conversation 
with the duchess had roused a thousand contradictory 
ideas in her mind. Like the sheep of the fable, full of 
courage when the wolf was away, she preached to her¬ 
self and laid down admirable lines of conduct; she 
imagined stratagems of coquetry; she talked to her 
husband, he being absent, with all the resources of 
that eloquence which never leaves a woman; then, 
remembering the glance of Theodore’s fixed, light eyes, 
she trembled with fear. When she asked if Monsieur 
were at home, her voice failed her. Hearing that he 
would not be at home to dinner, she was conscious of 
a feeling of inexplicable relief. Like a criminal who 
appeals against a death-sentence, the dela}", however 
short, seemed to her a lifetime. 

She placed the portrait in her bedroom, and awaited 
her husband in all the agonies of hope. Too well she 
knew that this attempt would decide her whole future, 
and she trembled at every sound, even at the ticking of 
her clock, which seemed to increase her fears by mea¬ 
suring them. She tried to cheat time; the idea oc¬ 
curred to her to dress in a manner that made her still 


Fame and Sorrow. 


89 


more like the portrait. Then, knowing her husband’s 
uneasy nature, she caused her rooms to be lighted up 
with unusual brilliancy, certain that curiosity would 
bring him to her as soon as he came in. Midnight 
sounded, and at the groom’s cry the gates opened and 
the painter’s carriage rolled into the silent courtj’ard. 

“What is the meaning of all this illumination?” 
asked Theodore, gayly, as he entered his wife’s room. 

Augustine took advantage of so favorable a moment 
and threw herself into his arms as she pointed to the 
portrait. The artist stood still; immovable as a rock, 
gazing alternately at Augustine and at the tell-tale can¬ 
vas. The timid wife, half-dead with fear, watched the 
changing brow, that terrible brow, and saw the cruel 
wrinkles gathering like clouds; then the blood seemed 
to curdle in her veins when, with a flaming eye and a 
husky voice, he began to question her. 

‘ ‘ Where did you get that picture ? ” 

“ The Duchesse de Carigliano returned it to me.” 

“ Did you ask her for it? ” 

“ I did not know she had it.” 

The softness, or rather the enchanting melody of that 
angel voice might have turned the heart of cannibals, 
but not that of an artist in the tortures of wounded 
vanity. 

“ It is worthy of her! ” cried the artist, in a voice of 
thunder. “ I will be revenged ! ” he said, striding up 


90 


Fame and Sorrow. 


and down the room. “ She shall die of shame; I will 
paint her, —yes, I will exhibit her in the character of 
Messalina leaving Claudius’ palace by night.” 

“ Theodore ! ” said a faint voice. 

“ I will kill her ! ” 

“ My husband ! ” 

“ She loves that little cavaliy colonel, because he 
rides well! ” 

“ Theodore! ” 

“ Let me alone! ” said the painter to his wife, in a 
voice that was almost a roar. 

The scene is too repulsive to depict here; the rage 
of the artist led him, before it ended, to words and acts 
which a woman less 3’oung and timid than Augustine 
would have ascribed to insanity. 

About eight o’clock on the following morning Madame 
Guillaume found her daughter pale, with red eyes and 
her hair in disorder, gazing on the fragments of a 
painted canvas and the pieces of a broken frame which 
lay scattered on the floor. Augustine, almost uncon¬ 
scious with grief, pointed to the wreck with a gesture 
of despair. 

“It is not such a very great loss,” cried the old 
woman. “ It was very like you, that’s true ; but I’m 
told there is a man on the boulevard wLo paints 
charming portraits for a hundred and fifty francs.” 

“Ah, mother!” 


Fame and Sorrow, 


91 


“ Poor clear! well, 3’ou are right,” answered Madame 
Guillaume, mistaking the meaning of the look her 
daughter gave her; “there is nothing so tender as 
a mother’s love. My dearest, I can guess it all; tell 
me your troubles and I ’ll comfort you. Your maid has 
told me dreadful things ; I always said 3’our husband 
was a madman, — wh3’, he’s a monster ! ” 

Augustine put her finger on her pallid lips as if to 
implore silence. During that teri’ible night sorrow had 
brought her the patient resignation which, in mothers 
and in loving women, surpasses in its effects all other 
human forces, and reveals, perhaps, the existence of 
certain fibres in the hearts of women which God has 
denied to those of men. 

An inscription engraved on a broken column in the 
cemeteiy of Montmartre states that Madame de Som- 
mervieux died at twent3'-seven 3’ears of age. Between 
the simple lines of her epitaph a friend of the timid 
creature reads the last scenes of a drama. Eveiy year, 
on the solemn second of November, as he passes before 
that earl3" grave he never fails to ask himself if stronger 
women than Augustine are not needed for the powerful 
clasp of genius. 

“ The modest, humble flower, blooming in the valle3’ 
dies,” he thought, “ if transplanted nearer to heaven, 
to the regions where the storms gather and the sun 
wilts.” 





COLONEL CHABERT. 


To Madame la Comtesse Ida de Bocarme 
NEE DU Chaste LER. 


There’s our old top-coat again ! 

This exclamation came from the lips of a clerk of the 
species called in Parisian law-ofSces “ gutter-jumpers,” 
who was at the moment munching with a ver}^ good 
appetite a slice of bread. He took a little of the crumb 
and made a pellet, which he flung, with a laugh, through 
the blinds of the window against which he was leaning. 
Well-aimed, the pellet rebounded nearly to the height 
of the window after hitting the hat of a stranger who 
was crossing the courtyard of a house in the rue Vivi¬ 
enne, where Maitre Derville, the lawyer, resided. 

“Come, come, Simonnin, don’t play tricks, or I’ll 
turn 3’ou oflT. No matter how poor a client may be, he 
is a man, the devil take you! ” said the head-clerk, 
pausing as he added up a bill of costs. 




94 


Colonel Chahert, 


The gutter-jumper is usuallj^, like Simonnin, a lad 
of thirteen or fourteen years of age, who in all law- 
offices is under the particular supervision of the head- 
clerk, whose errands he does, and whose love-letters 
he carries, together with the writs of the courts and the 
petitions entered. He belongs to the gamin de Paris 
through his ethics, and to the pettifogging side of law 
through fate. The lad is usually pitiless, undisciplined, 
totally without reverence, a scoffer, a writer of epi¬ 
grams, lazy, and also greedj’. Nevertheless, all such 
little fellows have an old mother living on some fifth 
story, with whom they share the thirty or forty francs 
the}^ earn monthl}’.” 

“ If it is a man, wh}" do 3'ou call him an ‘ old top¬ 
coat/” said Simonnin, in the tone of a scholar who 
detects his master in a mistake. 

Thereupon he returned to the munching of his bread 
with a bit of cheese, leaning his shoulder against the 
window-frame; for he took his rest standing, like the 
horses of the hackne}’-coaches, with one leg raised and 
supported against the other. 

“Couldn’t we pla^’that old gu}^ some trick?” said 
the third clerk, Godeschal, in a low voice, stopping in 
the middle of a legal document he was dictating to be 
engrossed b}^ the fourth clerk and copied bj^ two neo¬ 
phytes from the provinces. Having made the above 
suggestion, he went on with his dictation; '‘'"But in 


Colonel Chahert 


95 


his gracious and benevolent wisdom His Majesty 
Louis the Eighteenth^ — Write all the letters, hi, 
there ! Desroches the learned! — so soon as he re¬ 
covered the rems of power ^ understood — What did 
that fat joker understand, I’d like to know ? — the 
high mission to which Divine Providence had called 

him! . Put an exclamation mark and six 

dots; they are pious enough at the Palais to let ’em 
pass — and his first thought was^ as is proved by the 
date of the ordinance herein named, to repair evils 
caused by the frightful and lamentable disasters of 
the revolutionary period by restoring to his faithful 
and numerous adherents — ‘ Numerous ’ is a bit of 

flattery which ought to please the court — all their 
unsold property wheresoever situate, whether in the 
public domain or the ordinary and extraordinary 
crown domains, or in the endowments of public in¬ 
stitutions ; for we contend and hold ourselves able to 
maintain that such is the spirit and the meaning of 
the gracious ordinance, rendered in — ” 

“Stop, stop,” said Godeschal to the three clerks; 
“that rascally sentence has come to the end of my 
paper and is n’t done 3^et. Well,” he added, stopping 
to wet the back of the cahier with his tongue to turn the 
thick page of his stamped paper, “ if you want to pla}^ 
the old top-coat a trick tell him that the master is so 
busy he can talk to clients onl}’ between two and three 



96 


Colonel Chahert. 


o’clock in the morning; we ’ll see if he comes then, the 
old villain! ” and Godeschal returned to his dictation : 
“ gracious ordinance rendered in — Have you got 
that down?” 

“Yes,” cried the three copyists. 

“ Rendered in — Hi, papa Boucard, what’s the date 
of that ordinance? Dot your i’s, unam et omnes — 
it fills up.” 

“ Omnes^^'' repeated one of the clerks before Bou¬ 
card, the head-clerk, could answer. 

“ Good heavens! j^ou have n’t written that, have 
you?” cried Godeschal, looking at the provincial new¬ 
comer with a truculent air. 

“Yes, he has,” said Desroches, the fourth clerk, 
leaning over to look at his neighbor’s copy, “he has 
written, “ Dot 3"our i’s, and he spells it e-j^-e-s.” 

All the clerks burst into a roar of laughter. 

“ Do 3"Ou call that a law-term. Monsieur Hure ? ” cried 
Simonnin, “ and 3'ou say you come from Mortagne ! ” 

“ Scratch it out carefully,” said the head-clerk. “ If 
one of the judges were to get hold of the petition and 
see that, the master would never hear the last of it. 
Come, no more such blunders. Monsieur Hure ; a Nor¬ 
man ought to know better than to write a petition care¬ 
lessly ; it’s the ‘ Shoulder-arms ! ’ of the legal guild.” - 

Rendered in — in — ” went on Godeschal. “Do 
tell me when, Boucard?” 


Colonel ChdberL 


97 


“June, 1814 ,” replied the head-clerk, without raising 
his head from his work. 

A knock at the door interrupted the next sentence of 
the prolix petition. Five grinning clerks, with lively, 
satirical eyes and curly heads, turned their noses to¬ 
wards the door, having all shouted with one voice, 
“ Come in ! ” Boucard remained with his head buried 
in a mound of deeds, and went on making out the bill 
of costs on w^hich he was employed. 

The office was a large room, furnished with the clas¬ 
sic stove that adorns all other pettifogging precincts. 
The pipes went diagonallj^ across the room and entered 
the chimne}", on the marble mantel-shelf of which were 
diverse bits of bread, triangles of Brie cheese, fresh 
pork-chops, glasses, bottles, and a cup of chocolate for 
the head-clerk. The smell of these comestibles amalga¬ 
mated so well with the offensive odor of the over-heated 
stove and the peculiar exhalations of desks and papers 
that the stench of a fox would hardly have been per¬ 
ceived. The floor was covered with mud and snow 
brought in b}’ the clerks. Near the window stood the 
rolling-top desk of the head-clerk, and next to it the 
little table of the second clerk. The latter was now on 
duty in the courts, where he usually went between eight 
and nine o’clock in the morning. The sole decorations 
of the office were the well-known large yellow posters 
which announce attachments on property, mortgagee- 
7 


98 


Colonel Chahert, 


sales, litigations between guardians and minors, and 
auctions, final or postponed, the glory of legal offices. 

Behind the head-clerk, and covering the wall from 
top to bottom, was a case with an enormous number of 
pigeon-holes, each stuffed with bundles of papers, from 
which hung innumerable tags and those bits of red 
tape which give special character to legal documents. 
The lower shelves of the case were filled with paste¬ 
board boxes, yellowed by time and edged with blue 
paper, on which could be read the names of the more 
distinguished clients whose affairs were cooking at the 
present time. The dirty window-panes let in but a 
small amount of light; besides, in the month of Feb¬ 
ruary there are very few law-offices in Paris where the 
clerks can write without a lamp before ten o’clock in the 
day. Such offices are invariably neglected, and for 
the reason that while eveiy one goes there nobody 
stays; no personal interest attaches to so mean a 
spot; neither the lawyers, nor the clients, nor the 
clerks, care for the appearance of the place which is 
to the latter a school, to the clients a means, to the 
master a laboratory. The greas}^ furniture is trans¬ 
mitted from lawyer to lawj^er with such scrupulous ex¬ 
actness that certain offices still possess boxes of “ resi¬ 
dues,” parchments engrossed in black-letter, and bags, 
which have descended from the solicitors of the “ Chlet,’' 
an abbreviation of the word “ Chatelet,” an institution 


Colonel CJiahert. 


99 


which represented under the old order of things what a 
court of common pleas is in our day. 

This dark office, choked with dust and dirt, was there¬ 
fore, like all such offices, repulsive to clients, and one 
of the ugly monstrosities of Paris. Certainly, if the 
damp sacristies where prayers are weighed and paid 
for like spices, if the second-hand shops, where flutter 
rags which blight the illusions of life by revealing to us 
the end of our festive arrays, if these two sewers of 
poesy did not exist, a lawyer’s office would be the most 
horrible of all social dens. But the same characteristic 
may be seen in gambling-houses, in court-rooms, in the 
lottery bureaus, and in evil resorts. Wh}’? Perhaps 
because the drama played in such places within the 
soul renders men indifferent to externals, — a thought 
which likewise explains the simplicity of great thinkers 
and men of great ambitions. 

“ Where’s my penknife?” 

“ I shall eat my breakfast.” 

“ Look out! there’s a blot on the petition.” 

“ Plush, gentlemen ! ” 

These various exclamations went off all at once Just 
as the old client entered and closed the door, with the 
sort of humilit}’ which gives an unnatural air to the 
movements of a poverty-stricken man. The stranger 
tried to smile, but the muscles of his face relaxed 
when he had vainly looked for symptoms of civility 


100 


Colonel Chahert. 


on the inexorably indifferent faces of the six clerks. 
Accustomed, no doubt, to judge men, he addressed 
himself politely to the gutter-jumper, hoping that the 
office drudge might answer him civilly: — 

“ Monsieur, can I see 3’our master?” 

The mischievous youngster replied by tapping his 
ear with the fingers of his left hand, as much as to 
say, “I am deaf.” 

“ What is it 3"ou want, monsieur? ” asked Godeschal 
swallowing an enormous mouthful as he asked the 
question, — brandishing his knife and crossing his legs 
till the foot of the upper one came on a line with his 
nose. 

“I have called five times, monsieur,” replied the 
visitor; “I wish to speak to Monsieur Derville.” 

“ On business? ” 

“ Yes ; but I can explain my business onl3r to him.” 

“He’s asleep; if 3’ou wish to consult him 3’ou’ll 
have to come at night; he never gets to work before 
midnight. But if 3"Ou will explain the matter to us we 
can perhaps do as well — ” 

The stranger was impassive. He looked humbly 
about him like a dog slipping into a strange kitchen 
and afraid of kicks. Thanks to their general condi¬ 
tion, law-clerks are not afraid of thieves; so they felt 
no suspicion of the top-coat, but allowed him to look 
round in search of a seat, for he was evidently fatigued. 


Colonel Chahert, 


101 


It is a matter of calculation with lawyers to have few 
chairs in their offices. The common client, weary of 
standing, goes away grumbling. 

“ Monsieur,” replied the stranger, “ I have already 
had the honor of telling you that I can explain my 
business to no one but Monsieur Derville. I will wait 
until he is up.” 

Boucard had now finished his accounts. He smelt 
the fumes of his chocolate, left his cane chair, came up 
to the chimney, looked the old man over from head to 
foot, gazed at the top-coat and made an indescribable 
grimace. He probably thought that no matter how 
long the}" kept this client on the rack not a penny 
could be got out of him; and he now interposed, 
meaning with a few curt words to rid the office of an 
unprofitable client. 

‘ ‘ They tell you the truth, monsieur,” he said ; < ‘ Mon¬ 
sieur Derville works only at night. If your business is 
important I advise you to come back here at one or two 
in the morning.” 

The client looked at the head-clerk with a stupid air, 
and remained for an instant motionless. Accustomed 
to see many changes of countenance, and many sin¬ 
gular expressions produced by the hesitation and the 
dreaminess which characterize persons who go to law, 
the clerks took no notice of the old man, but continued 
to eat their breakfasts with as much noise of their jaws 
as if they were horses at a manger. 


102 


Colonel Chahert. 


“ Monsieur, I shall return to-night,” said the visi¬ 
tor, who, with the tenacity of an unhappy man, was 
determined to put his tormentors in the wrong. 

The onl}^ retaliation granted to poverty is that of 
forcing justice and benevolence to unjust refusals. 
When unhappy souls have convicted society of false¬ 
hood then they fling themselves the more ardently 
upon the bosom of God. 

‘ ‘ Did you ever see such a skull ? ” cried Simonnin, 
without waiting till the door had closed on the old 
man. 

“He looks as if he had been buried and dug up 
again,” said one. 

“He’s some colonel who wants his back-pay,” said 
the head-clerk. 

“ No, he’s an old porter.” 

“ Who hi bet he’s a nobleman? ” cried Boucard. 

“I’ll bet he has been a porter,” said Godeschal. 
“ None but porters are gifted by nature with top-coats 
as greasy and ragged round the bottom as that old 
fellow’s. Did n’t you notice his cracked boots which 
let in water, and that cravat in place of a shirt ? That 
man slept last night under a bridge.” 

“ He may be a nobleman and have burnt his candle 
at both ends, — that’s nothing new ! ” cried Desroches. 

“ No,” replied Boucard, in the midst of much laughter, 
“ I maintain he was a brewer in 1789 and a colonel 
under the Republic.” 


Colonel Chabert. 


103 


“ Ha! I ’ll bet tickets for a play all round that he 
never was a soldier,” said Godeschal. 

“ Done,” said Boucard. 

“Monsieur, monsieur!” called the gutter-jumper, 
opening the window. 

“ What are you doing, Simonnin?” asked Boucard. 

“I’m calling him back to know if he is a colonel or 
a porter, — he ought to know, himself.” 

“ What shall we say to him?” exclaimed Godeschal. 

“ Leave it to me,” said Boucard. 

The poor man re-entered timidly, with his e3"es low¬ 
ered, perhaps not to show his hunger by looking too 
eagerly' at the food. 

“ Monsieur,” said Boucard, “ will 3’ou have the kind¬ 
ness to give us your name, so that Monsieur Derville 
may — ” 

“ Chabert,” 

‘ ‘ The colonel who was killed at Eylau ? ” asked 
Hure, who had not 3’et spoken, but was anxious to 
get in his joke like the rest. 

“The same, monsieur,” answered the old man, with 
classic simplicit3\ Then he left the room. 

“Thunder!” 

“Sold! ” 

“Puff!” 

“Oh!” 

“ Ah! ” 


104 


Colonel Chahert, 


“Bourn! ” 

“ The old oddity ! ” 

“Done for!” 

“ Monsieur Desroches/you and I will go to the the¬ 
atre for nothing! ” cried Hure to the fourth clerk, with 
a rap on the shoulders fit to have killed a rhinoceros. 

Then followed a chorus of shouts, laughs, and excla¬ 
mations, to describe which we should have to use all 
the onomatopoeias of the language. 

“ Which theatre shall we choose?” 

“The Opera,” said the head-clerk. 

“In the first place,” said Godeschal, “I never said 
theatre at all. I can take you, if I choose, to Madame 
Saqui.” 

“ Madame Saqui is not a plaj^,” said Desroches. 

“What’s a play?” retorted Godeschal. “Let’s 
first establish the fact. What did I bet, gentlemen ? tick¬ 
ets for a play. What’s a play ? a thing we go to see — ” 

“ If that’s so, you can take us to see the water run¬ 
ning under the Pont Neuf,” interrupted Simonnin. 

“ — see for money,” went on Godeschal. 

“ But you can see a great many things for money 
th'^t are not plays. The definition is not exact,” said 
Desroches. 

“ But just listen to me — ” 

“You are talking nonsense, my dear fellow,” said 
Boucard. 


Colonel Chahert. 


105 


“ Do you call Curtius a play?’’ asked Godeschal. 

“No,” said the head-clerk, “I call it a gallery of 
wax figures.” 

“ I ’ll bet a hundred francs to a sou,” retorted Godes¬ 
chal, “that Curtius’s gallery constitutes a collection of 
things which may legally be called a play. They com¬ 
bine into one thing which can be seen at different prices 
according to the seats you occup}" — ” 

“ You can’t get out of it! ” said Simonnin. 

“ Take care I don’t box your ears ! ” said Godeschal. 

The clerks all shrugged their shoulders. 

“ Besides, we don’t know that that old baboon wasn’t 
making fun of us,” he continued, changing his argu¬ 
ment amid roars of laughter. “The fact is. Colonel 
Chabert is as dead as a door-nail; his widow married 
Comte Ferraud, councillor of state. Madame Ferraud 
is one of our clients.” 

“ The cause stands over for to-morrow,” said Bou- 
card. “ Come, get to work, gentlemen. Heavens and 
earth ! nothing ever gets done here. Finish with that 
petition, — it has to be sent in before the session of ^he 
fourth court which meets to-day. Come, to work ! ” 

“ If it was really Colonel Chabert, would n’t he Iiavs 
kicked that little Simonnin when he pretended to' be 
deaf ? ” said the provincial Hure, considering that ob¬ 
servation quite as conclusive as those of Godeschal, 

“ Nothing is decided,” said Boucard. “ Let us agree 


106 


Colonel Chahert. 


to accept the second tier of boxes at the Fran9ais and 
see Talma in Nero. Simonniii can sit in the pit.” 

Thereupon the head-clerk sat down at his desk, and 
the others followed his example. 

“ Rendered June one thousand eight hundred and 
fourteen — Write it in letters, mind,” said Godeschal. 
“ Have you written it? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” replied the copyists and the engrosser, whose 
pens began to squeak along the stamped paper with a 
noise, well known in all law-offices, like that of scores 
of cockchafers tied by schoolboys in a paper bag. 

“ And we pray that the gentlemen of this triburial — 
Hold on! let me read that sentence over to m}*self; I 
don’t know what I’m about.” 

‘ ‘ Forty-six — should think that often happened — 
and three, forty-nine,” said Boucard. 

“ We pray f resumed Godeschal, having re-read his 
clause, that the gentlemen of this tribunal will not 
show less magnanimity than the august author of the 
ordinance^ and that they will deny the miserable pre¬ 
tensions of the administration of the grand chancellor 
of the Legion of honor by determining the jurispru^ 
dence of this matter in the broad sense in which we have 
established it here — ” 

“Monsieur Godeschal, don’t j'ou want a glass of 
water?” said the gutter-jumper. 

“ That imp of a Simonnin ! ” said Boucard. “ Come 


Colonel ChaherU 107 

here, saddle your double-soled horses, and take this 
package and skip over to the Invalides.” 

“ TFA^cA we have established it here — ” went on 
Godeschal. “Did 3’ou get to that? Well, then add 
in the interests of Madame (full length) la Vicomtesse 
de Grandlieu — ” 

“What’s that?” cried the head clerk, “the idea of 
petitioning in that affair! Vicomtesse de Grandlieu 
against the Legion of honor! Ah! you must be a 
fool! Have the goodness to put away 3’our copies and 
3"Our minute, — the3' ’ll answer for the K’avarreins affair 
against the monasteries. It’s late, and I must be off 
with the other petitions; I ’ll attend to that myself at 
the Palais.” 

Towards one o’clock in the morning the individual 
calling himself Colonel Chabert knocked at the door of 
Maitre Derville, solicitor in the court of common pleas 
for the department of the Seine. The porter told him 
that Monsieur Derville had not 3’et come in. The old 
man declared he had an appointment and passed up to 
the rooms of the celebrated law3’er, who, young as he 
was, was even then considered one of the best legal 
heads in France. Having rung and been admitted, the 
persistent client was not a little astonished to find the 
head-clerk laying out on a table in the dining-room a 
number of documents relating to affairs which were to 
come up on the morrow. The clerk, not less astonished 


108 


Colonel Chahert, 


at the apparition of the old man, bowed to the colonel 
and asked him to sit down, which he did. 

“Upon my word, monsieur, I thought you were 
joking when you named such a singular hour for a 
consultation,” said the old man, with the factitious 
liveliness of a ruined man who tries to smile. 

“ The clerks were joking and telling the truth also,” 
said the head-clerk, going on with his work. “Mon¬ 
sieur Derville selects this hour to examine his causes, 
give directions for the suits, and plan his defences. 
His extraordinary intellect works freer at this hour, 
the onl}" one in which he can get the silence and tran- 
quillit}’ he requires to evolve his ideas. You are the 
third person only who has been admitted here for a 
consultation at this time of night. After Monsieur 
Derville comes in he will talk over each affair, read 
everything connected with it, and spend perhaps five 
or six hours at his work; then he rings for me, and 
explains his intentions. In the morning, from ten to 
two, he listens to his clients; the rest of the day he 
passes in visiting. In the evening he goes about in 
society to keep up his relations with the great world. 
He has no other time than at night to delve into his 
cases, rummage the arsenals of the Code, make his 
plans of campaign. He is determined, out of love for 
his profession, not to lose a single case. And for that 
reason he won’t take all that are brought to him, as 


Colonel Chahert, 109 

other lawyers do. That’s his life ; it’s extraordinarily 
active. He makes a lot of money.” 

The old man was silent as he listened to this explana¬ 
tion, and his singular face assumed a look so devoid of 
all intelligence that the clerk after glancing at him once 
or twice took no further notice of him. A few moments 
later Derville arrived, in evening dress; his head-clerk 
opened the door to him and then went back to the 
papers. The 3’oung lawyer looked amazed when he 
saw in the dim light the strange client who awaited him^ 
Colonel Chabert was as motionless as the wax figures 
of Curtius's gallery where Godeschal proposed to take 
his comrades. This immovability^ might have been less 
noticeable than it was, if it had not, as it were, com¬ 
pleted the supernatural impression conveyed by^ the 
whole appearance of the man. The old soldier was 
lean and shrunken. The concealment of his forehead, 
which was carefully hidden beneath a wig brushed 
smoothly^ over it, gave a mysterious expression to his 
person. The eyes seemed covered with a film ; you 
might have thought them bits of dirty mother-of-pearl, 
their bluish reflections quivering in the candle-light. 
The pale, livid, hatchet face, if I may borrow that 
term, seemed dead. An old black-silk stock was fas¬ 
tened round the neck. The shadow of the room hid 
the body so effectually below the dark line of the ragged 
article that a man of vivid imagination might have 


110 


Colonel CJiahert. 


taken that old head for a sketch drawn at random on 
the wall or for a portrait by Rembrandt without its 
frame. The brim of the hat worn by the strange old 
man cast a black line across the upper part of his face. 
This odd effect, though perfectly natural, brought out 
in abrupt contrast the white wrinkles, the stiffened 
lines, the unnatural hue of that cadaverous counte¬ 
nance. The absence of all motion in the bod}", all 
warmth in the glance, combined with a certain ex¬ 
pression of mental alienation, and with the degrading 
S3"mptoms which characterize idiocy, to give that face a 
nameless horror which no words can describe. 

But an observer, and especially a lawyer, would have 
seen in that blasted man the signs of some deep an¬ 
guish, indications of a misery that degraded that face 
as the drops of rain falling from the heavens on pure 
marble gradually disfigure it. A doctor, an author, a 
magistrate would have felt intuitively a whole drama as 
the}^ looked at this sublime wreck, whose least merit 
was a resemblance to those fantastic sketches drawn by 
artists on the margins of their lithographic stones as 
they sit conversing with their friends. 

When the stranger saw the lawyer he shuddered with 
the convulsive movement which seizes a poet when a 
sudden noise recalls him from some fecund revery 
amid the silence of the night. The old man rose 
quickly and took off his hat to the young lawyer. The 


Colonel CJiahert. 


Ill 


leather that lined it was no doubt damp with grease, for 
his wig stuck to it without his knowledge and exposed 
his skull, horribly mutilated and disfigured by a scar 
running from the crown of his head to the angle of his 
right e3'e and forming a raised welt. The sudden re¬ 
moval of that dirt}^ wig, worn b}^ the poor soul to con¬ 
ceal his wound, caused no desire to laugh in the minds 
of the two 3’oung men; so awful was the sight of that 
skull. ‘‘The mind fled through it!” was the first 
thought suggested to them as the3" saw that wound. 

“ If he is not Colonel Chabert he is some bold 
trooper,” thought Boucard. 

“ Monsieur,” said Derville, “ to whom have I the 
honor of speaking?” 

“ To Colonel Chabert.” 

“Which one?” 

“ The one who was killed at Eylau,” replied the old 
man. 

Hearing those extraordinary words the clerk and the 
law3'er looked at each other as if to say, “He is 
mad.” 

“Monsieur,” said the colonel, “I desire to confide 
my secrets to you in private.” 

The intrepidity which characterizes law3’ers is worthy 
of remark. Whether from their habit of receiving 
great numbers of persons, whether from an abiding 
sense of the protection of the law, or from perfect 


112 


Colonel Chahert. 


confidence in their ministiy, certain it is they go 
eveiywhere and take all risks, like priests and doc¬ 
tors. Derville made a sign to Boucard, who left the 
room. 

‘‘ Monsieur,” said the lawyer, “ during the daj" I am 
not very chary of my time; but in the middle of the 
night every moment is precious to me. Therefore, be 
brief and concise. Tell j'our facts without digression ; 
I will ask 3^ou any explanations I may find necessary. 
Go on.” 

Bidding his strange client be seated, the young man 
sat down before the table, and while listening to the tale 
of the late colonel he turned over the pages of a brief. 

“Monsieur,” said the deceased, “ perhaps 3'ou know 
that I commanded a regiment of cavaliy at Eylau. I 
was the chief cause of the success of Murat’s famous 
charge which won the da}". Unhappil}" for me, m3" 
death is given as an historic fact in ‘ Victories and 
Conquests’ where all the particulars are related. AVe 
cut the three Russian lines in two ; then the}" closed be¬ 
hind us and we were obliged to cut our wa}" back again. 
Just before we reached the Emperor, having dispersed 
the Russians, a troop of the enem3"’s cavalr}" met us. I 
flung myself upon them. Two Russian officers, actual 
giants, attacked me together. One of them cut me 
over the head with his sabre, which went through ever}*- 
thing, even to the silk cap which I wore, and laid m3" 


Colonel Chahert, 


113 


skull open. I fell from my horse. Murat came up 
to support us, and he and his whole party, fifteen hun¬ 
dred men, rode over me. They reported my death to 
the Emperor, who sent (for he loved me a little, the mas¬ 
ter !) to see if there were no hope of saving a man to 
whom he owed the vigor of our attack. He despatched 
two surgeons to find me and bring me in to the ambu¬ 
lances, saying— perhaps too hurriedly, for he had work 
to attend to— ‘ Go and see if my poor Chabert is still 
living.’ Those cursed saw-bones had just seen me 
trampled under the hoofs of two regiments; no doubt 
they never took the trouble to feel my pulse, but re¬ 
ported me as dead. The certificate of my death was 
doubtless drawn up in due form of military law.” 

Graduallj', as he listened to his client, who expressed 
himself with perfect clearness, and related facts that 
were quite possible, though somewhat strange, the 
young lawj'er pushed away his papers, rested his left 
elbow on the table, put his head on his hand, and 
looked fixedl}^ at the colonel. 

“Are 3"OU aware, monsieur,” he said, “that I am 
the solicitor of the Countess Ferraud, widow of Colonel 
Chabert ? ” 

“ Of m3" wife? Yes, monsieur. And therefore, after 
many fruitless efforts to obtain a hearing from lawyers, 
who all thought me mad, I determined to come to 3"ou. 
I shall speak of m3" sorrows later. Allow me now to 

8 


114 


Colonel Chahert 


state the facts, and explain to you how they probably 
happened, rather than how they actually did happen. 
Certain circumstances, which can never be known ex¬ 
cept to God Almighty, oblige me to relate much in the 
form of hypotheses, I must tell 3’ou, for instance, that 
the wounds I received probably produced something 
like lockjaw, or threw me into a state analogous to a 
disease called, I believe, cataleps3\ Otherwise, how 
can T suppose that I was stripped of my clothing and 
flung into a common grave, according to the customs of 
war, by the men whose business it was to buiy the 
dead? Here let me state a circumstance which I only 
knew much later than the event which I am forced to 
call my death. In 1814 I met in Stuttgard an old cav¬ 
alry sergeant of my regiment. That dear man — the 
onl}’ human being willing to recognize me, of whom I 
wdll presently speak to 3’ou — explained to me the ex- 
traordinaiy circumstances of my preservation. He said 
that ni}' horse received a bullet in the bod}’ at the same 
moment when I nyself was wounded. Horse and rider 
were therefore knocked over together like a stand of 
muskets. In turning, either to the right or to the 
left, I had doubtless been protected by the body of 
ni}’ horse which saved me from being crushed by the 
riders or hit by bullets.” 

The old man paused for a moment as if to collect 
himself and then resumed : — 



Colonel Chahert, 


115 


“ When I came to myself, monsieur, I was in a place 
and in an atmosphere of which I could give you no 
idea, even if I talked for days. The air I breathed was 
mephitic. I tried to move but I found no space. My 
e^’es were open but I saw nothing. The want of air 
was the worst sign, and it showed me the dangers of my 
position. I felt I was in some place where the atmos¬ 
phere was stagnant, and that I should die of it. This 
thought overcame the sense of extreme pain which had 
brought me to my senses. ears hummed violentlj’. 
I heard, or thought I heard (for I can affirm nothing), 
groans from the heap of dead bodies among whom I 
la}'. Though the recollection of those moments is dark, 
though my memoiy is confused, and in spite of still 
greater sufferings which I experienced later and which 
have bewildered m3" ideas, there are nights, even now, 
when I think I hear those smothered moans. But there 
was something more horrible than even those cries, —a 
silence that I have never known elsewhere, the silence 
of the grave. At last, raising m3" hands and feeling 
for the dead, I found a void between m3" head and the 
human carrion about me. I could even measure the 
space thus left to me b}' some mere chance, the cause 
of which I did not know. It seemed as if, thanks to 
the carelessness or to the haste w'ith which we had been 
flung pell-mell into the trench, that two dead bodies 
had fallen across each other above me, so as to form an 


116 


Colonel CJiahert 


angle like that of two cards which children lay together 
to make houses. Quickly feeling in all directions, — for 
I had no time to idle, — I happily came across an arm, 
the arm of a Hercules, detached from its body; and 
those good bones saved me ! Without that unlooked- 
for succor I must have perished. But now, with a 
fury you will readil}" understand, I began to work m}^ 
way upward through the bodies which separated me 
from the layer of earth hastily flung over us, — I say 
‘us,’ as though there were others living. I worked 
with a will, monsieur, for here I am! Still, I don’t 
know to-daj" how it was that I managed to tear through 
the covering of flesh that lay between me and life. I 
had, as it were, three arms. That Herculean crow-bar, 
which I used carefully, brought me a little air conflned 
among the bodies which it helped me to displace, and I 
economized my breathing. At last I saw daylight, but 
through the snow, monsieur! Just then I noticed for 
the first time that my head was cut open. Happily, 
my blood — that of my comrades, possibly, how should 
I know ? or the bleeding flesh of m}^ horse — had co¬ 
agulated on my wound and formed a natural plaster. 
But in spite of that scab I fainted when my head came 
in contact with the snow. The little heat still left in 
my body melted tbe snow about me, and when I came 
to myself my head was in the middle of a little opening, 
through which I shouted as long as I was able. But 


Colonel Chahert, 


117 


the sun had risen and I was little likely to be heard. 
People seemed already in the fields. I raised myself to 
my feet, making stepping-stones of the dead whose 
thighs were solid, — for it was n’t the moment to stop 
and say, ‘ Honor to heroes ! ’ 

“ In short, monsieur,” continued the old man, who 
had stopped speaking for a moment, ‘ ‘ after going 
through the anguish — if that word describes the rage — 
of seeing those cursed Germans, ay, many of them, 
run awa}’ when they heard the voice of a man they 
could not see, I was at last taken from my living grave 
b}" a woman, daring enough or inquisitive enough to 
come close to my head, which seemed to grow from the 
ground like a mushroom. The woman fetched her hus¬ 
band, and together they took me to their poor hovel. 
It seems that there I had a return of cataleps}', — allow 
me that term with which to describe a state of which I 
have no idea, but which I judge, from what my hosts 
told me, must have been an effect of that disease. I lay 
for six months between life and death, not speaking, 
or wandering in mind when I did speak. At last my 
benefactors placed me in the hospital at Heilsberg. Of 
course 3’ou understand, monsieur, that I issued from 
m3’ grave as naked as I came from my mother’s womb; 
so that when, many months later, I remembered that I 
was Colonel Chabert, and endeavored to make m3^ 
nurses treat me with more respect than if I were a 


118 


Colonel Chahert. 


poor devil of a private, all the men in the ward laughed. 
Happily for me, the surgeon made it a point of honor 
or vanit^’^ to cure me; and he naturall}^ became inter¬ 
ested in his patient. When I spoke to him in a con¬ 
nected manner of my former life, that good man (his 
name was Sparchmann) had mj' statements recorded in 
the legal forms of his countr}^ also a statement of the 
miraculous manner in which I had escaped from the 
trench, and the da}" and hour m3" benefactress and her 
husband had rescued me, together with the nature and 
exact position of m3" wounds and a careful description 
of m3" person. Well, monsieur, I do not possess a 
single one of those important papers, nor the declara¬ 
tion I made before a notaiy at Heilsberg to establish 
m3' identit}'. The events of the war drove us from the 
town, and from that da}" I have wandered like a vaga¬ 
bond, begging my bread, treated as a lunatic when I 
told m3" stoiy, unable to earn a single sou that would 
enable me to send for those papers, which alone can 
prove the truth of what I say and restore me to m3" 
social status. Often m3" physical sufferings have kept 
me for weeks and months in some obscure countr}' town, 
where the greatest kindness has been shown to the sick 
Frenchman, but where they laughed in his face when he 
asserted he was Colonel Chabert. For a long while 
such doubts and laughter made me furious, and that in¬ 
jured my cause, and once I was shut up as a madman 


Colonel Cliabert. 


119 


at Stuttgard. You can imagine, from what I have told 
you, that there were reasons to lock me up. After two 
years in a madhouse, where I was forced to hear m}^ 
keepers say : ‘ This poor man fancies he was once Col¬ 
onel Chabert,’ to visitors, who replied compassionate!}', 
‘ Ah, poor man ! ’ I m3'self was convinced of the im¬ 
possibility of my stoiy being true; I grew sad, resigned, 
tranquil, and I ceased to call myself Colonel Chabert, 
so as to get my release and return to France. Oh, mon¬ 
sieur ! to see Paris once more ! it was a joy I — ” 

With those unfinished words Colonel Chabert sank 
into a revery, which the lawyer did not disturb. 

“ Monsieur,” resumed the client present!}', “ one fine 
day, a spring day, they gave me my freedom and ten 
thalers, on the ground that I talked sensibly on all sub¬ 
jects and had given up calling myself Colonel Chabert; 
and, God knows, at that time my name was disagree¬ 
able to me, and has been at intervals ever since. I 
would like not to be myself; the sense of my rights 
kills me. If my illness had only taken from me forever 
the remembrance of my past existence, I might be 
happy. I might have re-entered the service under some 
other name; and, who knows ? perhaps I should have 
ended as a Russian or an Austrian field-marshal.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the lawyer, “you have upset all 
my ideas ; I fancy I dream as 1 listen to you. Let us 
pause here for a moment, I beg of you.” 


120 


Colonel ChaherL 


“Yon are the only person,” said the colonel sadly, 
“ who have ever listened to me patiently. No law3'er 
has been willing to lend me ten napoleons, that I might 
send to German}^ for the papers necessaiy for m}’ suit.” 

“What suit?” asked the law3'er, who had forgotten 
the unfortunate present position of his client, as he 
listened to the recital of his past miseiy. 

“ Why, monsieur, you are w'ell aware that the Com- 
tesse Ferraud is m3’ wife. She possesses an income of 
thirt3’ thousand francs which belongs to me, and she 
refuses to give me one peniy* of it. When I tell this to 
law3’ers and to men of common-sense, when I, a beg¬ 
gar, propose to sue a count and countess, when I,, 
risen from the dead, den3" the proofs of m3’ death, the3" 
put me off, — tlie3' refuse to listen to me, either with 
that coldl3’ polite air with which 3’ou law3"ers know so 
well how to rid yourselves of hapless creatures, or 
brutall3’, as men do wdien they think the3’ are dealing 
with a swindler or a madman. I have been buried 
beneath the dead, but now I am buried beneath the 
living, — beneath facts, beneath records, beneath society 
itself, which seeks to thrust me back underground ! ” 

“Monsieur, have the goodness to sue, to prosecute 
now,” said the law3’er. 

“Have the goodness! Ah!” exclaimed the unfor¬ 
tunate old man, taking the hand of the 3’oung lawyer; 
“that is the first polite w’ord I have heard since — ” 


Colonel Chabert. 


121 


He wept. Gratitude stifled his voice. The all-pene¬ 
trative, indescribable eloquence of look, gesture, — even 
silence, — clinched Derville’s conviction, and touched 
him keenly. 

“Listen to me, monsieur,” he said. “I won three 
hundred francs at cards to-night; I can surel3" afford to 
give half that sum to procure the happiness of a man. 
I will make all the investigations and orders necessary 
to obtain the papers }'Ou mention; and, until their 
arrival, I will allow 3’ou flve francs a da3". If 3^ou are 
Colonel Chabert, you will know how to pardon the small¬ 
ness of the loan offered by a young man who has his 
fortune to make. Continue.” 

The self-styled colonel remained for an instant mo¬ 
tionless, and as if stupefled ; his great misfortunes had, 
perhaps, destro3'ed his powers of belief. If he were 
seeking to recover his illustrious military fame, his 
home, his fortune, — himself, in short,—it ma3^ have 
been only in obedience to that inexplicable feeling, that 
germ in the hearts of all men, to which we owe the 
researches of the alchemists, the passion for gloiy, the 
discoveries of astronomy and of physios, — all that 
urges a man to magnif3" himself b3" the magnitude of 
the facts or the ideas that are a part of him. The ego 
was now but a secondaiy consideration to his mind, 
just as the vanity of triumph or the satisfaction of gain 
are dearer to a man who bets than the object of his 


122 


Colonel Chahert, 


wager. The words of the 3’oung lawj’er came, there¬ 
fore, like a miracle to this man, repudiated for the last 
ten years b}" wife, b}’ justice, b}' the whole social crea¬ 
tion. To receive from a lawyer those ten gold pieces 
so long denied him, by so man}’ persons, in so many 
ways ! The colonel was like the lad}' who had been ill 
so long, that when she was cured she thought she was 
suffering from a new malady. There are joys in w’hich 
we no longer believe; they come, and we find them 
thunderbolts, —they blast us. So now the poor man’s 
gratitude was so deep that he could not utter it. He 
might have seemed cold to a superficial mind, but Der- 
ville saw integrity in that very stupor. A swindler 
w’ould have spoken. 

“ Where was I?” said the colonel, with the guileless¬ 
ness of a child or a soldier; for there is much of the 
child in the true soldier, and nearly always something 
of a soldier in a child, especially in France. 

“ At Stuttgard ; they had set you at liberty.” 

“You know my wife?” asked the colonel. 

“ Yes,” replied Derville, with a nod of his head. 

“ How is she? ” 

“ Always fascinating.” 

The old man made a gesture with his hand, and 
seemed to conquer some secret pang w’ith the grave 
and solemn resignation that characterizes men who have 
been tried in the fire and blood of battle-fields. 


Colonel Chahert. 


123 


“ Monsieur,” he said, with a sort of gayety; for he 
breathed anew, poor soul; he had issued a second 
time from the grave; he had broken through a crust of 
ice and snow harder to melt than that which once had 
frozen his wounded head ; he inhaled the air as though 
he were just issuing from a dungeon. “ Monsieur,” he 
said, “ if I were a handsome fellow I should n’t be where 
I am now. Women believe men when the}- lard their 
sentences with words of love. Then they ’ll fetch and 
carry, and come and go, and do anything to serve you. 
They ’ll intrigue ; they ’ll swear to facts ; they ’ll play 
the devil for the man they love. But how could I make 
a woman listen to one like me? With a face like a 
death’s head, and clothed like a sans-culotte, I was 
more of an Esquimau than a Frenchman, — I, who in 
1799 was the finest coxcomb in the service! — I, Cha- 
bert, count of the Empire I At last the day came when 
I knew I was an outcast on the streets, like a pariah 
dog. That day 1 met the sergeant I told you of; his 
name was Boutin. That poor devil and I made the 
finest pair of broken-down old brutes I have ever seen. 
I met him, and recognized him; but lie couldn’t even 
guess who I was. We went into a tavern. When I 
told him my name his mouth split open with a roar of 
laughter like a burst mortar. Monsieur, that laugh is 
among the bitterest of my sorrows. It revealed, with¬ 
out disguise, the changes there were in me. I saw 


124 


Colonel Chahert. 


m3’self unrecognizable, even to the humblest and most 
grateful of m3' friends ; for I had once saved Boutin’s 
life, though that was a return for something I owed 
him. I need n’t tell 3'ou the whole stor3'; the thing 
happened in Italy, at Ravenna. The house where Bou¬ 
tin saved me from being stabbed was none too decent. 
At that time I was not colonel, onl3' a trooper, like 
Boutin. Happil3', there were circumstances in the affair 
known onl3' to him and me; when I reminded him of 
them, his incredulit3' lessened. Then I told him the 
stor3' of m3’ extraordinaiy fate. Though m3’ e3’es and 
m3’ voice were, he told me, strangely altered; though I 
had neither hair, nor teeth, nor e3’ebrows, and was as 
white as an albino, he did finally recognize his old colo¬ 
nel in the beggar before him, after putting a vast number 
of questions to which I answered triumphantl3’. 

“Ah!” went on the old soldier, after a moment’s 
pause, “he told me his adventures too, and the3’ were 
hardl3’ less extraordinaiy than mine. He w’as just back 
from the borders of China, to which he had escaped 
from Siberia. He told me of the disasters of the Rus¬ 
sian campaign and Napoleon’s first abdication; that 
news was another of m3’ worst pangs. We were two 
strange wrecks drifting over the globe, as the storms of 
ocean drift the pebbles from shore to shore. We had 
each seen Egypt, Syria, Spain, Russia, Holland, Ger¬ 
many, Italy, Dalmatia, England, China, Tartary, Si- 


Colonel Chahert. 


125 


beria; nothing was left for us to know but the Indies 
and America. Boutin, who was more active on his 
legs than I, agreed to go to Paris as quickl}^ as he 
could, and tell my wife the state in which I was. I 
wrote a long and detailed letter to Madame Chabert; it 
was the fourth I had written her. Monsieur, if I had 
had relatives of my own, the thing could not have hap¬ 
pened ; but, I must tell you plainly, I was a foundling, a 
soldier whose patrimony was his courage, the world his 
family, France his country, God his sole protector, — 
no ! I am wu’ong ; I had a father, — the Emperor! 
Ah! if he, dear man, were still among us; if he saw 
‘ his Chabert,’ as he called me, in such a plight, he 
would be furious. But what’s to be done? our sun has 
set; we are all left out in the cold ! After all, political 
events might be the reason of m}^ wife’s silence ; at least 
I thought so. Boutin departed. He was lucky, he was, 
poor fellow! he had two white bears who danced and 
kept him in food. I could not accompany him ; m3" 
pains were so great I could not go long distances. I 
wept when we parted, having walked as far as I had 
strength with the bears and him. At Carlsruhe I was 
taken with neuralgia in my head, and lay six weeks in 
the straw of an inn barn. 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” continued the unhapp}" man, “ there 
is no end to what I might tell 3"ou of my miserable life. 
Moral anguish, before which ail physical sufferings are 


126 


Colonel Chahert, 


as nought, excites less pity because it is not seen. I 
remember weeping before a mansion in Strasburg where 
I once gave a ball, and where the}' now refused me a 
crust of bread. Having agreed with Boutin as to the 
road I should follow, I went to every post-office on my 
way expecting to find a letter and some money. I 
reached Paris at last without a line. Despair was 
in my heart! Boutin.must be dead, I thought; and 
I was right; the poor fellow died at Waterloo, as I 
heard later and accidentally. His errand to my wife 
w'as no doubt fruitless. Well, I reached Paris just 
as the Cossacks entered it. To me, that was grief upon 
grief. When I saw those Pussians in France I no 
longer remembered that I had neither shoes on m}* feet 
nor money in my pocket. Yes, monsieur, m3' clothes 
W'ere litcrall}' in shreds. The evening of m3' arrival I 
was forced to bivouac in the w'oods of Cla3'e. The 
chilliness of the night gave me a sort of illness, I 
hardl}' know what it was, which seized me as I was 
crossing the faubourg Saint-Martin. I fell, half-uncon¬ 
scious, close b}' the door of an ironmonger. When I 
came to m3' senses I was in a bed at the Hotel-Dieu. 
There I stayed a month in some comfort; then I was 
discharged. I had no monc}', but I was cured and I 
had m3' feet on the blessed pavements of Paris. With 
what jo}' and speed I made m3' w'a}' to the rue du Mont- 
Blanc, where I supposed m}^ wife was living in my 


Colonel Chahert, 


127 


house. Ball! the rue du Moiit-Blanc had become the 
rue de la Chaussee-d’Antin. My house was no longer 
standing; it was pulled down. Speculators had built 
houses in my gardens. Not knowing that my wife had 
married Monsieur Ferraud, I could hear nothing of her. 
At last I went to an old law3’er who formerl}" took charge 
of my affairs. The good man was dead, and his office 
had passed into the hands of a 3*ounger man. The 
latter informed me, to my great astonishment, of the 
settlement of my estate, the marriage of m3’ wife, and 
the birth of her two children. When I told him that 
I was Colonel Chabert, he laughed so loudN in m3’ face 
that I turned and left him without a word. M3’ deten¬ 
tion at Stuttgart made me mindful of Charenton, and I 
resolved to act prudentl3’. Then, monsieur, knowing 
where my wife lived, I made my way to the house — 
Ah ! ” cried the colonel, with a gesture of intense anger, 
“ I was not received when I gave a borrowed name, but 
when I sent in m3’ own I was turned out of the house! 
I have stood night after night leaning against the but¬ 
tress of her porte-cochere to see her returning from a 
ball or from the theatre. I have plunged m3’ e3’es into 
that carriage where I could see tlie woman who is mine 
and who is not mine ! Oh ! from that da3’ I have lived 
for vengeance,” cried the old man, in a hollow voice, 
standing suddenl3’ erect in front of Derville. “ She 
knows I am living; she has received three letters which 


128 


Colonel CTiahert. 


I have written to her since m3" return. She loves me 
no longer! I — I don’t know if I love her or if I hate 
her; I long for her and I curse her b}" turns! She 
owes her prosperit}^ and all her happiness to me, and 
she denies me even the meanest succor! Sometimes 
I don’t know where to turn! 

The old man fell back into a chair, motionless and 
silent. Derville too was silent, contemplating his 
client. 

“ The matter is serious,” he said at last in a mechan¬ 
ical wa}". “Even admitting the authenticity of the 
papers which ought to be found at Heilsberg, it is not 
clear that we can establish our case, — certainlj- not at 
once. The suit will have to go before three courts. 
I must reflect at m3" leisure over such a case. It is 
exceptional.” 

“Oh!” replied the colonel, coldh", lifting his head 
with a proud gesture, “if I am compelled to succumb, 
I can die, — but not alone.” 

With the words the old man seemed to vanish; the 
e3"es of the man of energy shone with the fires of desire 
and vengeance. 

“ Perhaps we shall have to compromise,” said the 
law3"er. 

“ Compromise! ” repeated Colonel Chabert. “Am 
I dead, or am I living?” 

“Monsieur,” said the lawyer, “you will, I hope. 


Colonel Chabert. 


129 


follow my advice. Your cause shall be my cause. 
You will soon, I trust, see the true interest I take 
in your situation, which is almost without precedent 
in legal annals. Meantime let me give 3’ou an order 
on m}^ notar}^, who will remit 3’ou fifty francs every 
ten days on your receipt. It is not desirable that 3"ou 
should come here for this mone3\ If 3’ou are Colonel 
Chabert 3’ou ought not to be beholden to an3" one. I 
shall make these advances in the form of a loan. You 
have propert3" to recover; you are a rich man.” 

This last delicate consideration for his feelings 
brought tears from the old man’s eyes. Derville rose 
abruptl3", for assuredl3’ it is not the thing for a law3"er 
to show feeling; he went into his private stud3^ and 
returned presentl3’ with an unsealed letter, which he 
gave to Colonel Chabert. When the old man took it 
he felt two gold pieces within the paper. 

“Tell me precisel3" what the papers are; give me 
the exact name of the town and kingdom,” said the 
law3’^er. 

The colonel dictated the necessary information and 
corrected the spelling of the names. Then he took 
his hat in one hand, looked at Derville, offered him 
the other hand, a horny hand, and said in a simple 
way, — 

“ After the Emperor 3’ou are the man to whom I 
owe most. You are a noble man.” 

9 


130 


Colonel Chahert, 


The law3’er clasped the colonel’s hand, and went 
with him to the stairwa}' to light him down. 

“ Boucard,” said the law3"er to his head-clerk, whom 
he summoned, “ I have just heard a tale which may 
cost me some mone3’. If I am deceived I shall never 
regret what I pa3^, for I shall have seen the greatest 
comedian of our time.” 

“When the colonel reached the street, he stopped 
under a lamp, drew the two pieces of twent3" francs 
each from the letter which the law3’er had given him, 
and looked at them for a moment in the dim light. He 
saw gold for the first time in nine 3'ears. 

“ I can smoke cigars,” he said to himself. 

About three months after the nocturnal consultation 
of Colonel Chabert with Derville, the notaiy whom the 
latter had directed to pa3’ the stipend he allowed to his 
singular client went to the law3^er’s office one da3’ to 
confer on some important matter, and opened the con^ 
versation b3" asking for the six hundred francs he had 
alread3" paid to the old soldier. 

“ Do you find it amusing to support the old arm3"?” 
said the notary, laughing. His name was Crottat, — a 
young man who had just bought a practice in which he 
was head-clerk, the master of which, a certain Boguin, 
had latel3" absconded after a frightful failure. 

“ Thank you, m3’ dear fellow, for reminding me of 


Colonel ChaherL 


131 


that affair,” replied Derville. “My philanthropy does 
not go hej’ond twenty-five louis ; I fear I have been the 
dupe of my patriotism.” 

As Derville uttered the words his ej’es lighted on a 
packet of papers the head-clerk had laid upon his desk. 
His attention was drawn to one of the letters by the 
postmarks, oblong, square, and triangular, and red 
and blue stamped upon it in the Prussian, Austrian, 
Bavarian, and French post-offices. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, laughing, “ here's the conclusion of 
the corned}^; now we shall see if I have been taken in.” 

He took up the letter and opened it, but was unable 
to read a word, for it was in German. 

“Boucard! ” he called, opening the door and hold¬ 
ing out the letter to his head-clerk, “ go yourself and 
get that letter translated, and come back with it as fast 
as you can.” 

The Berlin notary to whom Derville had written now 
replied by informing the latter that the papers he had 
asked for would reach him a few days after this letter 
of advice. They were all, he said, perfectly regular, 
and were fully certified with the necessary legal forms. 
He added, moreover, that nearl}^ all the witnesses to 
the facts were still living, and that the woman to whom 
Monsieur le Comte Chabert owed his life could be found 
in a certain suburb of Heilsberg. 

“ It is getting serious,” said Derville, when Boucard 


132 


Colonel Chahert, 


had told him the substance of the letter. “ But see 
here, m3" dear fellow, I want some information which I 
am sure 3’ou must have in 3"Our office. When that old 
swindler of a Roguin — ” 

“We sa}^ ‘the unfortunate Roguin,’’’ said Crottat, 
laughing, as he interrupted Derville. 

“ Well— when that unfortunate Roguin ran off with 
eight hundred thousand francs of his clients’ monej' 
and reduced many families to pauperism, what was 
done about the Chabert i:)roperty? It seems to me I 
have seen something about it among our Ferraud 
papers.” 

“Yes,” replied Crottat, “I was third clerk at the 
time, and I remember copying and studjdng the docu¬ 
ments. Rose Chapotel, wife and widow of H3’acinthe, 
called Chabert, count of the Empire, grand officer of 
the Legion of honor. The}" had married without a con¬ 
tract and therefore the}" held their property in common. 
As far as I can recollect, the assets amounted to about 
six hundred thousand francs. Before his marriage 
;Comte Chabert had made a will leaving one fourth of 
the property of which he might die possessed to the 
Parisian hospitals ; the State inherited another fourth. 
There was an auction sale and a distribution of the 
property, for the lawyers made good speed with the 
affair. Upon the settlement of the estate the monster 
who then ruled France made a decree restoring the 


Colonel Chabert. 133 

amount which had gone to the Treasury to the colonel’s 
widow.” 

“ So that Comte Chabert’s individual property,” said 
Derville, “ does not amount to more than three hundred 
thousand francs ? ” 

Just that, old man,” said Crottat; “ you solicitors 
do occasionally get things right, — though some people 
accuse you of arguing just as well against as for the 
truth.” 

Comte Chabert, whose address was written at the 
foot of the first receipt he had given to the notary, 
lived in the faubourg Saint-Marceau, rue du Petit-Ban- 
quier, with an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard named 
Vergniaud, now a cow-keeper. When Derville reached 
the place he was obliged to go on foot to find his client, 
for his groom positively refused to drive through an un¬ 
paved street the ruts of which were deep enough to 
break the wheels of a cabriolet. Looking about him 
on all sides, the lawyer at length discovered at the end 
of the street nearest to the boulevard and between two 
walls built of bones and mud, two shabby rough stone 
pillars, much defaced by wheels in spite of wooden 
posts placed in front of them. These pillars supported 
a beam covered with a tiled hood, on which, painted 
red, were the words, “Vergniaud, Cow-keeper.” To 
the right of the name was a cow, and to the left eggs, 
all painted white. The gate was open. 


134 


Colonel CTiahert. 


At the farther end of a good-sized 3^ard and opposite 
to the gate stood the house, if indeed that name right- 
full}" belongs to one of those hovels built in the suburbs 
of Paris, the squalor of which cannot be matched else¬ 
where, not even in the most wretched of countr}’ huts; 
for they have all the poverty of the latter without 
their poetry. In fact, a cabin in the open countiy has 
the charm that pure air, verdure, the meadow vistas, 
a hill, a winding road, creepers, evergreen hedges, a 
moss}" roof and rural implements can give to it; but in 
Paris poverty is heightened only by horrors. Though 
recently built, the house seemed tumbling to ruins. 
None of its materials were originally destined for it; 
they came from the “demolitions’’ w"hich are daily 
events in Paris. On a shutter made of an old sign 
Derville read the words “ Fancy-articles.” No two of 
the windows were alike, and all were placed hap-hazard. 
The ground-floor, which seemed to be the habitable part 
of the hovel, was raised from the earth on one side, 
while on the other the rooms were sunk below a bank. 
Between the gate and the house was a slough of ma¬ 
nure, into which flowed the rain-water and the drainage 
from the house. The wall upon which this rickety 
building rested was surrounded by hutches in which 
rabbits brought forth their numerous young. To the 
right of the gate was the cow-shed, which communicated 
with the house through a dairy, and over it the hay-loft. 


Colonel Chabert, 


135 


To the left was a poultry-3’ard, a stable, and a pig- 
st}', all of which were finished off, like the house, 
with shabb}" planks of white-wood nailed one above the 
other and filled in with rushes. Like most of the pur¬ 
lieus whence the elements of the grand dinners dailj* 
eaten in Paris are derived, the yard in which Derville now 
stood showed signs of the haste required for the prompt 
filling of orders. The great tin cans in which the milk 
was carried, the smaller cans with their linen stoppers 
which contained the cream, were tossed higgled}'-piggle- 
d}' in front of the dair}’. The rags used to wipe them 
out were hanging in the sun to dr}^ on lines fastened 
to hooks. The stead\" horse, of a race extinct except 
among milk-dealers, had walked a few steps away from 
the cart and stood in front of the stable, the door of 
which was locked. A goat browsed upon the spindling, 
powdery vine-shoots which crept along the cracked and 
3'ellow walls of the house. A cat was creeping among 
the cream-cans and licking the outside of them. The 
hens, scared at Derville’s advent, scuttled away cack¬ 
ling, and the watch-dog barked. 

“The man who decided the victory of Eylau lives 
here! thought Derville, taking in at a glance the 
whole of this squalid scene. 

The house seemed to be under the guardianship of 
three little ragamuffins. One, who had clambered to 
the top of a cart laden with green fodder, was throwing 


136 


Colonel Chahert. 


stones down the chimney of the next house, probably 
hoping that the}^ would fall into the saucepans below; 
another was tiying to lead a pig up the floor of a tip- 
cart, one end of which touched the ground, while the 
third, hanging on to the other end, w'as waiting till the 
pig w’as fairly in to tip the cart up again. Wlien Der- 
ville asked if that was where Monsieur Chabert lived 
none of them answered ; and all three gazed at him 
with livel}" stupidit}’, — if it is allowable to unite those 
words. Derville repeated his question without result. 
Provoked at the sauc}^ air of the little scamps, he spoke 
sharply, in a tone which 3’oung men think they can use 
to children, and the boys broke silence with a roar of 
laughter. Derville was angry. The colonel, wdio heard 
the noise, came out of a little room near the dair^’ and 
stood on the sill of his door with the imperturbable 
phlegm of a military training. In his mouth was a 
pipe in process of being “colored,”—one of those 
humble pipes of white clay with short stems called 
“ muzzle-scorchers.” He raised the peak of a cap 
w'hich was horribl}' greasy', saw Derville, and came 
across the manure heap in haste to meet his bene¬ 
factor, calling out in a friendly tone to the boys, 
“Silence, in the ranks!” The children became in- 
stantlj’ and respectfull3’’ silent, showing the power the 
old soldier had over them. 

“Why haven’t you written to me?” he said to Dcr- 



Colonel ChaherL 


137 


ville. “ Go along by the cow-house ; see, the yard is 
paved on that side,” he cried, noticing the hesitation 
of the young lawyer, who did not care to set his feet 
in the wet manure. 

Jumping from stone to stone, Derville at last reached 
the door through which the colonel had issued. Chabert 
seemed annoyed at the necessity of receiving him in the 
room he was occupying. In fact, there was only one 
chair. The colonel’s bed was merely a few bundles of 
straw on which his landlad}" had spread some ragged bits 
of old carpet, such as milk-women lay upon the seats of 
their wagons, and pick up, heaven knows where. The 
floor was neitlier more nor less than the earth beaten 
hard. Such dampness exuded from the nitrified walls, 
greenish in color and full of cracks, that the side where 
the colonel slept had been covered with a mat made of 
reeds. The top-coat was hanging to a nail. Two pairs 
of broken boots lay in a corner. Not a vestige of 
under-clothing was seen. The “ Bulletins of the Grand 
Army,” reprinted by Plancher, was lying open on a 
mouldy table, as if constantly read by the colonel, 
whose face was calm and serene in the midst of this 
direful poverty. His visit to Derville seemed to have 
changed the very character of his features, on which 
the lawyer now saw traces of happy thought, the special 
gleam which hope had cast. 

“Does the smoke of a pipe annoj’you?” he asked, 


138 Colonel Chabert. 

offering the one chair, and that half-denuded of 
straw. 

“ But colonel, 3^011 are shockingl3^ ill-lodged here ! ” 

The words were wrung from Derville by the natural 
distrust of lawyers, caused by the deplorable experience 
that comes to them so soon from the dreadful, m3’steri- 
ous dramas in which the}" are called professionally to 
take part. 

“ That man,’’ thought Derville to himself, “ has no 
doubt spent my money in gratifying the three cardinal 
virtues of a trooper, —wine, women, and cards. 

“True enough, monsieur; we don’t abound in lux- 
uiy. It is a bivouac, tempered, as 3"ou ma}" sa}", b}’ 
friendship ; but ” (here the soldier cast a searching look 
at the law3'er) “ I have done wrong to no man, I have 
repulsed no man, and I sleep in peace.” 

Derville felt there would be a want of delicac}" in 
asking his client to account for his use of the monej" he 
had lent him, so he merely said: “ Wh}" don’t you 
come into Paris, where you could live just as cheapl}" 
as you do here, and be much better off ? ” 

“Because,” replied the colonel, “the good, kind 
people I am with took me in and fed me gratis for 
a 3’ear, and how could I desert them the moment I 
got a little money? Besides, the father of these 
3"Oung scamps is an Egyptian.” 

“ An Egyptian?” 


Colonel Chabert, 


139 


“That’s what we call the troopers who returned 
from the expedition to Eg3’pt, in which I took part. 
Not only are we all brothers in heart, but Vergniaud 
was in my regiment; he and I shared the water of the 
desert. Besides, I want to finish teaching those little 
monkeys to read.” 

“ He might give you a better room for your monej’,” 
said the lawj^er. 

“Bah!” said the colonel, “the children sleep as I 
do on straw. He and his wife have no better bed 
themselves. They are veiy poor, you see; they have 
more of an establishment here than the}" can manage. 
But if I get back my fortune — Well, enough I ” 

“ Colonel, I expect to receive your papers from 
Heilsberg to-morrow ; j’our benefactress is still living.” 

“Oh! cursed money! to think I haven’t an}’!” 
cried the colonel, flinging down his pipe. 

A “colored” pipe is a precious pipe to a smoker; 
but the action was so natural and so generous that 
all smokers would have forgiven him that act of leze- 
tobacco ; the angels might have picked up the pieces. 

“ Colonel, your affair is very complicated,” said 
Derville, leaving the room to walk up and down in 
the sun before the house. 

“ It seems to me,” said the soldier, “ perfectly sim¬ 
ple. They thought me dead, and here I am! Give 
me back my wife and my property; give me the rank 


140 


Colonel Chabert. 


of general, — to which I have a right, for I had passed 
colonel in the Imperial Guard the night before the battle 
of Eylau.*’ 

“Matters are not managed that way in law,” said 
Derville. ^‘Listen to me. You are Comte Chabert,— 
I’ll admit that; but the thing is to prove it legally 
against those persons whose interest it is to den}" 
your existence. All your papers and documents will 
be disputed ; and the very first discussions will open a 
dozen or more preliminary questions. Every step will 
be fought over up to the supreme court. All that will 
involve expensive suits, which will drag along, no matter 
how much energy I put into them. Your adversaries 
will demand an inquiry, which we cannot refuse, and 
which will perhaps necessitate sending a commission 
to Prussia. But suppose all went w^ell, and you were 
promptly and legally recognized as Colonel Chabert, 
wliat then? Do w^e know how the question of Ma¬ 
dame Ferraud’s innocent bigamy would be decided ? 
Here’s a case where the question of rights is outside 
of the Code, and can be decided by the judges only 
under the laws of conscience, as a jury does in many 
delicate cases which social perversities bring up in 
criminal courts. Now, here’s a point: you had no 
children by your marriage, and Monsieur Ferraud has 
two ; the judges may annul the marriage where the ties 
are weakest, in favor of a marriage which involves the 


Colonel Chahert. 


141 


well-being of children, admitting that the parents mar¬ 
ried in good faith. Would it be a fine or moral posi¬ 
tion for 3^ou, at 3’our age, and under these circumstances, 
to insist on having — will ye, nill ye — a wife who no 
longer loves you? You would have against you a hus¬ 
band and wife who are powerful and able to bring in¬ 
fluence upon the judges. The case has many elements 
of duration in it. You may spend years and grow an 
old man still struggling with the sharpest grief and 
anxiet}".” 

‘ ‘ But my property ? ” 

“ You think you have a large fortune?” 

“ I had an income of thirty- thousand francs.” 

“ My dear colonel, in 1799 , before 3’our marriage, 
3'ou made a will leaving a quarter of 3’our whole prop- 
ert3' to the hospitals.” 

“ That is true.” 

“Well, 3'ou were supposed to be dead; then of 
course an inventor3" of 3'our property was made and 
the whole wound up in order to give that fourth part 
to the said hospitals. Your wife had no scruples about 
cheating the poor. The inventor3’, in which she took 
care not to mention the cash on hand or her jeweliy, 
or the full amount of the silver, and in which the fur¬ 
niture was appraised at two-thirds below its real value 
(either to please her or to lessen the treasuiy tax, for ap¬ 
praisers are liable for the amount of their valuations), — 


142 


Colonel Chahert, 


this inventory, I say, gave your property as amounting 
to six hundred thousand francs. Your widow had a 
legal right to half. Everything was sold and bought 
in by her; she gained on the whole transaction, and 
the hospitals got their seventj-five thousand francs. 
Then, as the Treasury inherited the rest of 3’our prop¬ 
erty (for you had not mentioned your wife in 3’our 
will), the Emperor made a decree returning the portion 
which reverted to the Treasury" to 3^our widow. Now, 
then, the question is, to what have 3’ou an3^ legal right ? 
— to three hundred thousand francs onl3", less costs.” 

“You call that justice?” said the colonel, thunder¬ 
struck. 

Of course.” 

“ Fine justice ! ” 

“It is always so, my poor colonel. You see now 
that what you thought so easy is not easy at all. Ma¬ 
dame Terraud may also try to keep the portion the 
Emperor returned to her.” 

“ But she was not a widow, and therefore the decree 
was null.” 

“ I admit that. But everything can be argued. Lis¬ 
ten to me. Under these circumstances, I think a com¬ 
promise is the best thing both for you and for her. 
You could get a larger sum that way than by assert¬ 
ing your rights.” 

“ It would be selling my wife ! ” 


Colonel Chahert. 


143 


“ With an income of twent3’-four thousand francs 
3’ou would be in a position to find another who would 
suit 3'ou better and make 3'ou happier. I intend to go 
and see the Comtesse Ferraud to-da3^, and find out how 
the land lies ; but I did not wish to take that step with¬ 
out letting 3’ou know.” 

“We will go together.” 

“ Dressed as 3’ou are? ” said the law3"er. “ No, no, 
colonel, no ! You might lose 3’our case.” 

“ Can I win it?” 

“ Yes, under all aspects,” answered Derville. “ But 
m3’ dear Colonel Chabert, there is one thing 3’ou pa3" 
no heed to. I am not rich, and m3’ practice is not 
3’et wholl3’ paid for. If the courts should be willing 
to grant 3’ou a provisional maintenance the3’ will 01113’ 
do so after recognizing 3’our claims as Colonel Chabert, 
grand officer of the Legion of honor.” 

“ So I am ! ” said the old man, naivel3’, grand officer 
of the Legion of honor, — I had forgotten that.” 

“Well, as I was saying,” resumed Derville, “till 
then 3’ou will have to bring suits, pa3^ law3’ers, serve 
writs, emplo3’ sheriffs, and live. The cost of those 
preliminaiT steps will amount to more than twelve or 
even fifteen thousand francs. I can’t lend 3’ou the 
mone3’ for I am crushed b3’ the enormous interest I 
am forced to pa3’ to those who lent me mone3’ to bu3’ 
my practice. Where, then, can you get it? ” 


144 


Colonel ChaherL 


Big tears fell from the faded e^^es of the old soldier 
and rolled down his cheeks. The sight of these difficul¬ 
ties discouraged him. The social and judicial world 
lay upon his breast like a nightmare. 

“ I will go to the column of the place Vendome,” he 
said, “ and crj^ aloud, ‘ I am Colonel Chabert, who broke 
the Russian square at Eylau! ’ The man of iron up 
there — ah! he ’ll recognize me ! ” 

“ They would put 3^ou in Charenton.” 

At that dreaded name the soldier’s courage fell. 

“ Perhaps I should have a better chance at the 
ministry of war,” he said. 

“ In a government office? Well, tiT it,” said Der- 
ville. ‘‘ But 3'ou must take with 3^011 a legal judgment 
declaring 3’our death disproved. The government 
would prefer to get rid of the Empire people.” 

The colonel remained for a moment speechless, mo¬ 
tionless, gazing before him and seeing nothing, plunged 
in a bottomless despair. Militaiy justice is prompt 
and straight-forward; it decides peremptoril3", and is 
generall3" fair; this was the onl3" justice Chabert knew. 
Seeing the lab3Tinth of difficult3" which la3" before him^ 
and knowing that he had no mone3" which to enter 
it, the poor soldier was mortally wounded in that par¬ 
ticular power of human nature which we call will. He 
felt it was impossible for him to live in a legal struggle ; 
far easier to his nature was it to stay poor and a beg- 


Colonel Chahert, 


145 


gar, or to enlist in some cavalry regiment if the}" would 
still take him. Ph3’sical and mental suffering had vitiated 
his body in some of its important organs. He was 
approaching one of those diseases for which the science 
of medicine has no name, the seat of which is, in a way, 
movable (like the nervous system which is the part of 
our machinery most frequently attacked), an affection 
which we must fain call “ the spleen of sorrow.” 
However serious this invisible but most real disease 
might be, it was still curable by a happy termination 
of his griefs. To completely unhinge and destroy that 
vigorous organization some final blow was needed, 
some unexpected shock which might break the weak¬ 
ened springs and produce those strange hesitations, 
those vague, incomplete, and inconsequent actions which 
physiologists notice in all persons wrecked b}" grief. 

Observing symptoms of deep depression in his client, 
Derville hastened to say: ‘‘Take courage; the issue 
of the affair must be favorable to you in some way or 
other. Only, examine your own mind and see if you 
can place implicit trust in me, and accept blindly the 
course that T shall think best for 3'ou.” 

“ Do what 3'ou will,” said Chabert. 

“Yes, but will you surrender 3'ourself to me com- 
pletel}", like a man marching to his death ? ” 

“ Am I to live without a status and without a name? 


Is that bearable? ” 


10 


146 


Colonel Chahert. 


“ I don’t mean that,” said the lawyer. ‘‘We will 
bring an amicable suit to annul the record of 3’our 
decease, and also 3"our marriage ; then 3'ou will resume 
3'Our rights. You could even be, through Comte 
Ferraud’s influence, restored to the army with the 
rank of general, and you would certainly obtain a 
pension.” 

“Well, go on, then,” replied Chabert; “I trust 
implicith' to you.” 

“ I will send 3’ou a power-of-attorney to sign,” said 
Derville. “ Adieu, keep up your courage ; if you want 
mone3' let me know.” 

Chabert wrung the law3^er’s hand, and stood with his 
back against the wall, unable to follow him except with 
his e3’es. During this conference the face of a man had 
every now and then looked round one of the gate pil¬ 
lars, behind which its owner was posted waiting for 
Derville’s departure. The man now accosted the 3’oung 
law3^er. He was old, and he wore a blue jacket, a 
pleated white smock like those worn by brewers, and 
on his head a cap of otter fur. His face was brown, 
hollow, and wrinkled, but red at the cheek-bones from 
hard'work and exposure to the weather. 

“Excuse me, monsieur, if I take the liberty of 
speaking to you,” he said, touching Derville on the 
arm. “ But I supposed when I saw you that 3’ou 
were the general’s friend.” 


Colonel Chahert, 


147 


“Well,” said Derville, “ what interest have 5’ou in 
him ? Who are you ? ” added the distrustful lawyer. 

“I am Louis Vergniaud,” answered the man, “and 
I want to have a word with you.” 

“ Then it is you who lodge the Comte Chabert in this 
wa}", is it? ” 

“ Pardon it, monsieur. He has the best room in the 
house. I would have given him mine if I had had one, 
and slept myself in the stable. A man who has suffered 
as he has and who is teaching my kids to read, a gen¬ 
eral, an Egyptian, the first lieutenant under whom I 
served,—why, all I have is his! I’ve shared all 
with him. Unluckily it is so little, — bread and milk 
and eggs ! However, when 3’ou ’re on a campaign 3^ou 
must live with the mess; and little as it is, it is 
given with a full heart, monsieur. But he has vexed 
us.” 

“ He! ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, vexed ns ; there’s no going behind 
that. I took this establishment, which is more than I 
can manage, and he saw that. It troubled him, and he 
would do my work and take care of the horse I I kept 
saying to him, ‘No, no, my general!’ But there! he 
only answered, ‘ Am I a laz3’bones? don’t I know how 
to put m3’ shoulder to the wheel V So I gave notes for 
the value of my cow-house to a man named Grados. 
Do 3’ou know him, monsieur?” 


148 


Colonel Chahert. 


“ But, my good friend, I have n’t the time to listen 
to all this. Tell me only how Colonel Chabert vexed 
you.” 

“ He did vex us, monsieur, just as true as my name 
is Louis Vergniaud, and m3’’ wife cried about it. He 
heard from the neighbors that I couldn’t meet that 
note; and the old fellow, without a word to us, took 
all 3"ou gave him, and, little by little, paid the note! 
Wasn’t it a trick ! My wife and I knew he went with¬ 
out tobacco all that time, poor old man! But now, 
3"es, he has the cigars, — I’d sell my own self sooner ! 
But it does vex us. Now, I propose to 3’ou to lend me 
on this establishment three hundred francs, so that we 
ma}’ get him some clothes and furnish his room. He 
thinks he has paid us, doesn’t he? Well, the truth is, 
he has made us his debtors. Yes, he has vexed us; 
he shouldn’t have played us such a trick, — wasn’t it 
almost an insult? Such friends as we are! As true 
as m3" name is Louis Vergniaud, I will mortgage m3"self 
rather than not return you that mone3\” 

Derville looked at the cow-keeper, then he made a 
step backward and looked at the house, the 3’ard, the 
the manure, the stable, the rabbits, and the children. 

“ Faith ! ” thought he to himself, “I do believe one of 
the characteristics of virtue is to own nothing. Yes,” 
he said aloud, “ 3"ou shall have your three hundred 
francs, and more too. But it is not I who give them 


Colonel CTiahert. 149 

to 3’oii, it is the colonel; he will be rich enough to help 
you, and I shall not deprive him of that pleasure.” 

“ Will it be soon? ” 

“ Yes, soon.” 

“Good God! how happy my wife will be.” The 
tanned face of the cow-keeper brightened into jo3^ 

“Now,” thougiit Derville as he jumped into his 
cabriolet, “to face the enem}’. She must not see our 
game, but we must know hers, and win it at one trick. 
She is a woman. What are women most afraid of ? 
Why, of—” 

He began to study the countess’s position, and fell 
into one of those deep reveries to which great poli¬ 
ticians are prone when the}" prepare their plans and tiy 
to guess the secrets of foreign powers. Lawj^ers are, 
in a wa}', statesmen, to whom the management of indi¬ 
vidual interests is intrusted. A glance at the situ¬ 
ation of Monsieur le Comte Ferraud and his wife is 
necessar}" for a full comprehension of the lawyer’s 
genius. 

Monsieur le Comte Ferraud was the son of a former 
councillor of the parliament of Paris, who had emigrated 
during the Terror, and who, though he saved his head, 
lost his propert}". He returned to France under the 
Consulate, and remained faithful to the interests of 
Louis XVIII., in whose suite his father had been before 
the Revolution. His son, therefore, belonged to that 


150 


Colonel Chahert, 


section of the faubourg Saint-Germain which nobly re¬ 
sisted the Napoleonic seductions. The 3’oung count’s 
reputation for good sense and sagacity when he was 
called simply Monsieur Ferraud ’’ made him the object 
of a few imperial blandishments ; for the Emperor took 
as much satisfaction in his conquests over the aris¬ 
tocracy as he did in winning a battle. The count was 
IDi’omised the restitution of his title, also that of all 
his property which was not sold, and hopes were held 
out of a ministry in the future, and a senatorship. The 
Emperor failed. At the time of Comte Chabert’s death 
Monsieur Ferraud was a young man twentj'-six 3'ear3 
of age, without fortune, agreeable in appearance and 
manner, and a social success, whom the faubourg Saint- 
Germain adopted as one of its distinguished figures. 

Madame la Comtesse Chabert had managed the 
property derived from her late husband so well that 
after a widowhood of eighteen months she possessed 
an income of nearly forty thousand francs a year. 
Her marriage with the young count was not regarded 
as news by the coteries of the faubourg. Napoleon, 
who was pleased with an alliance which met his ideas 
of fusion, returned to Madame Chabert the money 
derived by the Treasury from her late husband’s estate ; 
but here again Napoleon’s hopes were foiled. Madame 
Ferraud not only adored a lover in the 3’oung man, but 
she was attracted by the idea of entering that haughty 


Colonel ChaherU 


151 


society which, in spite of its political abasement, was 
still far above that of the imperial court. Her various 
vanities as well as her passions were gratified b}^ this 
marriage. She felt she was about to become “ an 
elegant woman.” 

When the faubourg Saint-Germain ascertained that 
the 3’oung count’s marriage was not a defection from 
their ranks, all salons were opened to his wife. The 
Restoration took place. The political fortunes of the 
Comte Ferraud made no rapid strides. He understood 
very well the exigencies of Louis XVIII.’s position; 
he was one of the initiated who waited until ‘ ‘ the 
revolutionaiy gulf yvas closed,” — a royal phrase which 
the liberals laughed at, but which, nevertheless, hid a 
deep political meaning. However, the ordinance with 
its long-winded clerical phrases quoted b}^ Godeschal 
in the first pages of this story restored to the Comte 
Ferraud two forests and an estate which had risen in 
value during its sequestration. At the period of which 
we write Comte Ferraud was councillor of State, also 
a director-general, and he considered his position as no 
more than the opening of his political career. Ab¬ 
sorbed in the pursuit of an eager ambition, he depended 
much on his secretaiy, a ruined lawj’er named Delbecq, 
— a man who was more than able, one who knew every 
possible resource of pettifogging sophistry, to whom 
the count left the management of all his private affairs. 


152 


Colonel Chahert. 


This clever practitioner undei’stood his position in the 
count’s household far too well not to be honest out of 
policy. He hoped for some place under government 
through the influence of his patron, whose propertj’ he 
took care of to the best of his abilit}’. His conduct so 
completely refuted the dark stoiy of his earlier life 
that he was now thought to be a calumniated man. 

The countess, however, with the shrewd tact of a 
woman, fathomed the secretary, watched him careful!}’, 
and knew so well how to manage him, that she had 
already largely increased her fortune by his help. She 
contrived to convince Delbecq that she ruled Monsieur 
Ferraud, and promised that she would get him made 
judge of a municipal court in one of the most impor¬ 
tant cities in France if he devoted himself wholly to 
her interests. The promise of an irremovable office, 
which would enable him to marry advantageously and 
improve his political career until he became in the end 
a deputy, made Delbecq Madame Ferraud’s abject tool. 
His watchfulness enabled her to profit by all those 
lucky chances which the fluctuations of the Bourse 
and the rise of property in Paris during the first three 
years of the Restoration offered to clever manipula¬ 
tors of money. Delbecq had tripled her capital with all 
the more ease because his plans commended them¬ 
selves to the countess as a rapid method of making 
her fortune enormous. She spent the emoluments of 


Colonel Chahert, 


153 


the count’s various offices on the household expenses, 
so as to invest eveiy penny of her own income, and 
Delbecq aided and abetted this avarice without inquir¬ 
ing into its motives. Men of his kind care nothing 
for the discovery of aii}^ secrets that do not affect their 
own interests. Besides, he accounted for it naturally b}' 
that thirst for gold which possesses nearl}’ all Parisian 
women ; and as he knew how large a fortune Comte Fer- 
raud’s ambitions needed to support them, he sometimes 
fancied that he saw in the countess’s greed a sign of 
her devotion to a man with whom she was still in love. 

Madame Ferraud buried the motives of her conduct 
in the depths of her own heart. There W the secrets 
of life and death to her; there is the kernel of our 
present history. 

At the beginning of the year 1818 the Eestoration 
was established on an apparently firm and immovable 
basis; its governmental doctrines, as understood by 
superior minds, seemed likel}" to lead France into an 
era of renewed prosperity. Then it was that society 
changed front. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud found 
that she had made a marriage of love and wealth and 
ambition. Still young and beautiful, she played the 
part of a woman of fashion and lived in the court at¬ 
mosphere. Rich herself, and rich through her husband, 
who had the credit of being one of the ablest men of 
the royalist party, a friend of the king and likely to 


154 


Colonel Chahert. 


become a minister, she belonged to the aristocracy and 
shared its glamour. 

In the midst of this triumphant prosperity a moral 
cancer fastened upon her. Men have feelings which 
women guess in spite of ever}* effort made by such men 
to bury them. At the time of the king’s first return 
Comte Ferraud was conscious of some regrets for his 
marriage. The widow of Colonel Chabert had brought 
him no useful connections ; he was alone and without 
influence, to make his way in a career full of obstacles 
and full of enemies. Then, perhaps, after he had coolly 
judged his wife, he saw certain defects of education 
which made her unsuitable, and unable, to further his 
projects. A word he once said about Talleyrand’s mar¬ 
riage enlightened the countess and showed her that if 
the past had to be done over again he would never 
make her his wife. What woman w*ould forgive that 
regret, containing as it did, the germs of all insults, 
nay, of all crimes and all repudiations! 

Let us conceive the wound that this discovery made 
in the heart of a woman who feared the return of her 
first husband. She knew that he lived; she had re¬ 
pulsed him. Then, for a short time, she heard no more 
of him, and took comfort in the hope that he was killed 
at Waterloo together with the imperial eagles and Bou¬ 
tin. She then conceived the idea of binding her second 
husband to her by the strongest of ties, by a chain of 


Colonel Chahert, 


155 


gold; and she determined to be so rich that her great 
fortune should make that second marriage indissoluble 
if by chance Comte Chabert reappeared. He had reap¬ 
peared ; and she was unable to understand why the 
struggle she so much dreaded was not begun. Per¬ 
haps the man’s sufferings, perhaps an illness had de¬ 
livered her from him. Perhaps he was half-crazy and 
Charenton might restore his reason. She was not wil¬ 
ling to set Delbecq or the police on his traces, for fear 
of putting herself in their power, or bringing on a ca¬ 
tastrophe. There are many women in Paris who, like 
the Comtesse Ferraud, are living secretly with moral 
monsters, or skirting the edges of some ab3^ss; they 
make for themselves a callus over the region of their 
wound and still continue to laugh and be amused. 

“ There is something veiy singular in Comte Fer- 
raud’s situation,” said Derville to himself, after long 
meditation, as the cabriolet stopped before the gate of 
the hotel Ferraud in the rue de Varennes. “ How is it 
that he, so wealthy and a favorite of the king, is not al¬ 
ready a peer of France ? Perhaps Madame de Grandlieu 
is right in saying that the king’s polic}’ is to give higher 
importance to the peerage by not lavishing it. Besides, 
the son of a councillor of the old parliament is neither 
a Crillon nor a Rohan. Comte Ferraud can enter the 
upper Chamber onH, as it were, on sufferance. But if 
his marriage were ruptured would n’t it be a satisfac- 


156 


Colonel Chabert. 


tion to the king if the peerage of some of those old 
senators who have daughters onl}’ could descend to 
him? Certainl}' that’s a prett}" good fear to dangle 
before the countess,” thought Derville, as he Tvent up 
the steps of the hotel Ferraud. 

Without knowing it the lawj^er had laid his finger on 
the secret wound, he had plunged his hand into the can¬ 
cer that w'as destro3'ing Madame Ferraud’s life. She 
received him in a pretty winter dining-room, where she 
was breakfasting and placing with a monkey, which was 
fastened b}' a chain to a sort of little post with iron 
bars. The countess was wrapped in an elegant morn¬ 
ing-gown ; the curls of her pretty hair, carelessl}" caught 
up, escaped from a little cap which gave her a piquant 
air. She was fresh and smiling. The table glittered 
with the silver-gilt service, the plate, the mother-of- 
pearl articles ; rare plants were about her, growing in 
splendid porcelain vases. 

As the law3'er looked at Comte Chabert’s wife, rich 
with his property, surrounded by luxuiy, and she her¬ 
self at the apex of society, vdiile the unhapp}^ husband 
lived with the beasts in a cow-house, he said to him¬ 
self: “ The moral of this is that a pretty woman will 
never acknowledge a husband, nor even a lover, in a 
man with an old topcoat, a shabb}’ wig, and broken 
boots.” A bitter and satirical smile expressed the 
half-philosophic, half-sarcastic ideas that necessarily 


Colonel Cliahert. 


157 


come to a man who is so placed that he sees to the 
bottom of things in spite of the lies under which so many 
Parisian families hide their existence. 

“ Good morning, Monsieur Derville,” said the count¬ 
ess, continuing to make the monkey drink coffee. 

“ Madame,” he said, abruptl}', for he was offended at 
the careless tone in which the countess greeted him. 
have come to talk to 3'ou on a serious matter.” 

‘ ‘ Oh! I am so very sorry, but the count is ab¬ 
sent — ” 

“ I am glad, madame; for he would be out of place 
at this conference. Besides, I know from Delbecq that 
3"ou prefer to do business ^"ourself, without troubling 
Monsieur le comte.” 

“Very good; then I will send for Delbecq,” she 
said. 

“He could do you no good, clever as he is,” re¬ 
turned Derville. “Listen to me, madame; one word 
will suffice to make 3^ou serious. Comte Chabert is 
living.” 

“Do 3'OU expect me to be serious when you talk 
such nonsense as that?” she said, bursting into a fit 
of laughter. 

But the countess w'as suddenly subdued by the 
strange lucidity of the fixed look with which Derville 
questioned her, seeming to read into the depths of her 
soul. 


158 


Colonel Chdbert, 


“ Madame,” he replied, with cold and incisive gravity, 
“ 3’ou are not aware of the dangers of yonr position. 
I do not speak of the undeniable authenticity of the 
papers in the case, nor of the positive proof that can 
be brought of Comte Chabert’s existence. I am not 
a man, as you know, to take charge of a hopeless 
case. If you oppose our steps to prove the falsity 
of the death-record, j^ou will certainly lose that first 
suit, and that question once settled in our favor de¬ 
termines all the others.” 

“ Then, what do 3’ou wish to speak of?” 

“ Not of the colonel, nor of 3’ou ; neither shall I re¬ 
mind 3’OU of the costs a clever law3’er in possession 
of all the facts of the case might charge upon 3*011, 
nor of the game such a man could pla3" with those 
letters which you received from 3'our first husband 
before 3*ou married 3*our second — ” 

“It is false!” she cried, with the violence of a 
spoilt beaut3\ “ I have never received a letter from 
Comte Chabert. If an3" one calls himself the colonel 
he is a swindler, a galle3*-slave perhaps, like Cogniard; 
it makes me shudder to think of it. How can the colo¬ 
nel come to life again? Bonaparte himself sent me 
condolences on his death b3" an aid-de-camp ; and I 
now draw a pension of three thousand francs granted 
to his widow b3" the Chambers. I have ever3" right to 
reject all Chaberts past, present, and to come.” 


Colonel Chahert, 


159 


“ Happily we are alone, madaine, and we can lie at 
our ease/’ he said, coldlj', inwardly amused by inciting 
the anger which shook the countess, for the purpose 
of forcing her into some betrayal, — a trick familiar to 
all lawyers, who remain calm and impassible themselves 
when their clients or their adversaries get angiy. 

“Now then, to measure swords!” he said to him¬ 
self, thinking of a trap he could lay to force her to 
show her weakness. “The proof that Colonel Chabert’s 
first letter reached 3'ou exists, madame,” he said aloud. 
“ It contained a draft.” 

“ No, it did not; there was no draft,” she said. 

“ Then the letter did reach 3’ou,” continued Derville, 
smiling. “You are caught in the first trap a law3"er 
la3’s for 3'ou, and 3’et 3'ou think 3’ou can fight the 
law! ” 

The countess blushed, turned pale, and hid her face 
in her hands. Then she slioolc off her shame, and said, 
with the coolness which belongs to women of her class, 
“ As 3'OU are the lawyer of the impostor Chabert, have 
the goodness to — ” 

“ Madame,” said Derville, interrupting her, “I am 
at this moment 3’our lawyer as well as the colonel’s. 
Do 3'ou think I wish to lose a client as valuable to me 
as 3*ou are ? But 3'ou are not listening to me.” 

“ Go on, monsieur,” she said, graciousl3\ 

“Your fortune came from Monsieur le Comte Cha- 


IGO 


Colonel Chahert. 


bert, and you have repudiated him. Your property is 
colossal, and 3^011 let him starve. Madame, lawj'ers 
can be veiy eloquent when their cases are eloquent; 
here are circumstances which can raise the hue-and-cr}" 
of public opinion against 3’ou.” 

“ But, Monsieur,” said the countess, irritated b3' the 
manner in which Derville turned and returned her on 
his gridiron, “ admitting that 3’our Monsieur Chabert 
exists, the courts will sustain m3^ second marriage on 
account of m3" children, and I shall get off b3’ repaying 
two hundred and fift3" thousand francs to Monsieur 
Chabert.” 

“Madame, there is no telling how a court of law 
ma3" view a matter of feeling. If, on the one hand, 
we have a mother and two children, on the other there 
is a man overwhelmed ly undeserved misfortune, aged 
ly 3’ou, left to starve b3^ 3’our rejection. Besides, the 
judges cannot go against the law. Your marriage with 
the colonel puts the law on his side; he has the prior 
right. But, if 3’ou appear in such an odious light you 
ma3" find an adversaiy 3"ou little expect. That, ma- 
dame, is the danger I came to warn 3^011 of.” 

“ Another adversar3^! ” she said, “ who? ” 

“ Monsieur le Comte Ferraud, madame.” 

“Monsieur Ferraud is too deeply attached to me, 
and respects the mother of his children too — ” 

“Ah, madame,” said Derville, interrupting her, ^‘why 


Colonel Chahert, 


161 


talk such nonsense to a law^'er who can read hearts. 
At the present moment Monsieur Ferraud has not the 
slightest desire to annul his marriage, and I have no 
doubt he adores 3"ou. But if some one went to him 
and told him that his marriage could be annulled, that 
his wife would be arraigned before the bar of public 
opinion — ” 

“ He would defend me, monsieur.” 

“ No, madame.” 

“ What reason would he have for deserting me? ” 

“ That of marr3’ing the only daughter of some peer 
of France, whose title would descend to him by the 
king’s decree.” 

The countess turned pale. 

“ I have her! ” thought Derville. “ Good, the poor 
colonel’s cause is won. Moreover, madame,” he said 
aloud, “ Monsieur Ferraud will feel the less regret be¬ 
cause a man covered with glory, a general, a count, 
a grand officer of the Legion of honor, is certainly 
not a derogation to you, — if such a man asks for his 
wife — ” 

“Enough, enough, monsieur,” she cried ; “ I can have 
no law3^er but 3'ou. What must Ido?” 

“ Compromise.” 

“ Does he still love me? ” 

“ How could it be otherwise ? ” 

At these words the countess threw up her head. A 
11 


162 


Colonel Chahert. 


gleam of hope shone in her ej’es; perhaps she thought 
of speculating on her husband’s tenderness and winning 
her way by some female wile. 

“I shall await your orders, madame; you will, let 
me know whether we are to serve notices of Comte 
Chabert’s suit upon you, or whether 3’ou will come to 
my office and arrange the basis of a compromise,” said 
Derville, bowing as he left the room. 

Eight daj’s after these visits paid b}’ Derville, on a 
fine June morning, the husband and wife, parted l\y an 
almost supernatural circumstance, were making their 
wa3" from the opposite extremes of Paris, to meet again 
in the office of their mutual lawyer. Certain liberal 
advances made b}’ Derville to the colonel enabled the 
latter to clothe himself in accordance with his rank. 
He came in a clean cab. His head was covered with 
a suitable wig; he was dressed in dark-blue cloth and 
spotlessly' white linen, and he wore beneath his waist¬ 
coat the broad red ribbon of the grand officers of the 
Legion of honor. In resuming the dress and the 
habits of affiuence he had also recovered his former 
martial elegance. He walked erect. His face, grave 
and mysterious, and bearing the signs of happiness 
and renewed hope, seemed younger and fuller; he was 
no more like the old Chabert in the top-coat than a two- 
sous piece is like a forty-franc coin just issued. All 


Colonel CJiahert, 


163 


who passed him knew him at once for a noble relic of 
our old arm}^, one of those heroic men on whom the 
light of our national glory shines, who reflect it, as 
shattered glass illuminated by the sun returns a thou¬ 
sand ra^^s. Such old soldiers are books and pictures 
too. 

The count sprang from the carriage to enter Derville’s 
office with the agility of a j^oung man. The cab had 
hardly turned away before a prett}^ coupe with armorial 
bearings drove up. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud got 
out of it in a simple dress, but one well suited to dis¬ 
play her 3"outhful figure. She wore a pretty drawn 
bonnet lined with pink, which framed her face delight¬ 
fully, concealed its exact outline, and restored its 
freshness. 

Though the clients were thus rejuvenated, the office 
remained its old self, such as we saw it when this 
histor}^ began. Simonnin was eating his breakfast, 
one shoulder leaning against the window, which was 
now open; he was gazing at the blue sk}" above the 
courtj’ard formed by four blocks of black buildings. 

“ Ha ! ” cried the gutter-jumper, “ who wants to bet 
a play now that Colonel Chabert is a general and a 
red-ribbon ? 

“Derville is a downright magician,” said Godeschal. 

“There’s no trick to play him this time,” said 
Desroches. 


164 


Colonel Chahert. 


‘^His wife will do that, the Comtesse Ferraud,” said 
Boucard. 

“ Then she ’ll have to belong to two — ” 

“ Here she is! ” cried Simonnin. 

Just then the colonel came in and asked for Derville. 

“ He is in, Monsieur le Comte,” said Simonnin. 

“ So you are not deaf, you 3'oung scamp,” said 
Chahert, catching the gutter-jumper the ear and 
twisting it, to the great satisfaction of the other clerks, 
who laughed and looked at the colonel with the inquisi¬ 
tive interest due to so singular a personage. 

Colonel Chahert was in Derville’s room when his 
wife entered the office. 

“ Saj", Boucard, what a queer scene there’s going to 
be in the master’s room! She can live the even da3’S 
with Comte Ferraud, and the uneven days with Comte 
Chahert — ” 

“ Leap-3'ear the colonel will gain,” said Godeschal. 

“Hold 3"Our tongues, gentlemen,” said Boucard, se- 
verel3^ “ You’ll be overheard. I never knew an office 
in which the clerks made such fun of the clients as 3*ou 
do here.” 

Derville had put the colonel into an adjoining room 
b3^ the time the countess was ushered in. 

“Madame,” he said to her, “not knowing if it would 
be agreeable to 3*ou to meet Monsieur le Comte Chahert, 
I have separated 3^ou. If, however, 3’ou wish — ” 


Colonel Chahert. 


165 


“ I thank you for that consideration, monsieur.” 

“ I have prepared the draught of an agreement, the 
conditions of which can be discussed here and now, be¬ 
tween you and Monsieur Chabert. I will go from one to 
the other and convey the remarks of each.” 

“Begin, monsieur,” said the countess, showing signs 
of impatience. 

Derville read: “Between the undersigned, — Mon¬ 
sieur Hyacinthe, called Chabert, count, brigadier-gen¬ 
eral, and grand officer of the Legion of honor, living 
in Paris, in the rue du Petit-Banquier, of the first part, 
and Madame Rose Chapotel, wife of the above-named 
Monsieur le Comte Chabert, born — ” 

“ That will do,” she said; “skip the preamble and 
come to the conditions.” 

“ Madame,” said the law3^er, “ the preamble explains 
succinctl}^ the position which you hold to each other. 
Then, in article one, 3’ou recognize in presence of three 
witnesses, namel}^, two notaries, and the cow-keeper 
with whom your husband lives, to all of whom I have 
confided your secret and who will keep it faithfully, — 
you recognize, I saj", that the individual mentioned in 
the accompanying deeds and whose identit}" is else¬ 
where established hy affidavits prepared b}' Alexander 
Crottat, 3"our notaiy, is the Comte Chabert, jour first 
husband. In article two Comte Chabert, for the sake 
of your welfare, agrees to make no use of his rights 


166 


Colonel Chdbert, 


except under circumstances provided for in the agree¬ 
ment,— and those circumstances,” remarked Derville in a 
parenthesis, “ are the non-fulfilment of the clauses of 
this private agreement. Monsieur Chabert, on his 
part,” he continued, “ consents to sue with you for a 
judgment which shall set aside the record of his death, 
and also dissolve his marriage. ” 

“ But that will not suit me at all,” said the countess, 
astonished ; “ I don’t wish a lawsuit, 3’ou know why.” 

“ In article three,” continued the lawyer, with imper¬ 
turbable coolness, “ 3’ou agree to secure to the said 
H3’acinthe, Comte Chabert, an annuity of twent}"-four 
thousand francs now invested in the public Funds, the 
capital of which will devolve on 3’ou at his death.” 

“ But that is far too dear! ” cried the countess. 

‘ ‘ Can you compromise for less ? ” 

“ Perhaps so.” 

“ What is it j^ou want, madame? ” 

“ I want — I don’t want a suit. I want — ” 

“ To keep him dead,” said Derville, quickl3\ 

“ Monsieur,” said the countess, if he asks twent}'- 
four thousand francs a year. I’ll demand justice.” 

“ Yes, justice ! ” cried a hollow voice, as the colonel 
opened the door and appeared suddenly before his wife, 
with one hand in his waistcoat and the other pointing 
to the floor, a gesture to which the memory of his great 
disaster gave a horrible meaning. 


Colonel Chahert, 


167 


“ It is be ! ” said the countess in her own mind. 

“Too dear?” continued the old soldier, “I gave 
you a million and now 3"ou trade on m}^ povertj’. Well, 
then, I will have 5'ou and my property both; our mar¬ 
riage is not void.” 

“But monsieur is not Colonel Chabert! ” cried the 
countess, feigning surprise. 

“ All! ” said the old man, in a tone of irony, “ do 
you want proofs? Well, did I not take 3^ou from the 
pavements of the Palais-Royal?” 

The countess turned pale. Seeing her color fade be¬ 
neath her rouge, the old soldier, sony for the suffering he 
was inflicting on a woman he had once loved ardently', 
stopped short; but she gave him such a venomous look 
that he suddenly added, “ You were with — ” 

“For heaven’s sake, monsieur,” said the countess, 
appealing to the lawyer, “ allow me to leave this place. 
I did not come here to listen to such insults.” 

She left the room. Derville sprang into the office 
after her; but she seemed to have taken wings and 
was already gone. When he returned to his own 
room he found the colonel walking up and down in 
a paroxysm of rage. 

“ In those daj^s men took their wives where they 
liked,” he said. “But I chose ill; I ought never to 
have trusted her; she has no heart I ” 

“ Colonel, 3’ou will admit I was right in begging you 


168 


Colonel ChaherL 


not to come here! I am now certain of 3'our identity. 
When 3’ou came in the countess made a little move¬ 
ment the meaning of which was not to be doubted. 
But you have lost your cause. Your wife now knows 
that 3’ou are unrecognizable.” 

“ I will kill her.” 

“Nonsense! then 3'ou would be arrested and guil¬ 
lotined as a criminal. Besides, 3’ou might miss your 
stroke; it is unpardonable not to kill a wife when you 
attempt it. Leave me to undo your foil}’, you big 
child I Go away; but take care of 3’ourself, for she 
is capable of laying some trap and getting 3’ou locked 
up at Charenton. I will see about serving the notices 
of the suit on her at once ; that will be some protection 
to 3’ou.” 

The poor colonel obeyed his young benefactor, and 
went awa}’, stammering a few excuses. He was going 
slowl}’ down the dark staircase lost in gloom}’ thought, 
overcome perhaps by the blow he had just received, to 
him the worst, the one that went deepest to his heart, 
when, as he reached the lower landing, he heard the 
rustle of a gown, and his wife appeared. 

“ Come, monsieur,” she said, taking his arm with a 
movement like others he once knew so well. 

The action, the tones of her voice, now soft and 
gentle, calmed the colonel’s anger, and he allowed her 
to lead him to her carriage. 


Colonel Chahert. 


169 


“ Get in/’ she said, when the footman had let down 
the steps. 

And he suddenly found himself, as if by magic, 
seated beside his wife in the coupe. 

“ Where to, madame?” asked the footman. 

“ To Groslay,” she replied. 

The horses started, and the carriage crossed the 
whole cit}'. 

“Monsieur!” said the countess, in a tone of voice 
that seemed to betray one of those rare emotions, few 
in life, which shake our whole being. 

At such moments heart, fibres, nerves, soul, body, 
countenance, all, even the pores of the skin, quiver. 
Life seems no longer in us; it gushes out, it conve3"s 
itself like a contagion, it transmits itself in a look, in 
a tone of the voice, in a gesture, in the imposition of 
our will on others. The old soldier trembled, hearing 
that word, that first, that expressive “Monsieur!” 
It was at once a reproach, a prayer, a pardon, a hope, 
a despair, a question, an answer. That one word in¬ 
cluded all. A woman must needs be a great comedian 
to throw such eloquence and so man}" feelings into one 
word. Truth is never so complete in its expression ; it 
cannot utter itself wholl}", — it leaves something to be 
seen within. The colonel was filled with remorse for 
his suspicions, his exactions, his anger, and he lowered 
his eyes to conceal his feelings. 


170 


Colonel Cliabert, 


“ Monsieur,” continued the countess, after an almost 
imperceptible pause, “ I knew 3'ou at once.” 

“ Rosine,” said the old soldier, “ that word contains 
the only balm that can make me forget my troubles.” 

Two great tears fell hotly on his wife’s hands, which 
he pressed as if to show her a paternal affection. 

“ Monsieur,” she continued, “ how' is it you did not 
see what it cost me to appear before a stranger in a 
position so false as mine. If I am forced to blush for 
what I am, at least let it be in my own home. Ought 
not such a secret to remain buried in our own hearts? 
You will, I hope, forgive my apparent indifference to 
the misfortunes of a Chabert in whom I had no rea¬ 
son to believe. I did receive 3'our letters,” she said, 
hastilj", seeing a sudden objection on her husband’s 
face ; ‘ ‘ but the}’ reached me thirteen months after the 
battle of Eylau ; the}^ were open, torn, dirt}’; the writ¬ 
ing was unknown to me; and I, who had just obtained 
Napoleon’s signature to my new marriage contract, sup¬ 
posed that some clever swindler was trying to impose 
upon me. Not w’ishing to trouble Monsieur Ferraud’s 
peace of mind, or to bring future trouble into the family, 
I w^as right, was I not, to take every precaution against 
a false Chabert ? ” 

“Yes, you were right; and I have been a fool, a 
dolt, a beast, not to have foreseen the consequences of 
such a situation. But where are we going? ” asked the 


Colonel Chahert, 171 

colonel, suddenly noticing that they had reached the 
Barrie re de la Chapelle. 

“ To my coLintrj’-place near Grosla}^, in the valley 
of Montmorenc}',” she replied. “ There, monsieur, we 
can think over, together, the course we ought to take. 
I know my duty. Though I am 3’ours legally’, I am no 
longer yours in fact. Surel}', you cannot wish that we 
should be the common talk of Paris. Let us hide from 
the public a situation which, for me, has a mortifying 
side, and strive to maintain our dignify. You love me 
still,” she continued, casting a sad and gentle look 
upon the colonel, “ but I, was I not authorized to 
form other ties? In this strange position a secret 
voice tells me to hope in your goodness, which I know 
so well. Am I wrong in taking you, you onfy, for the 
sole arbiter of my fate? Be judge and pleader both ; I 
confide in 3'our noble nature. You will forgive the 
consequences of my innocent fault. I dare avow to 
you, therefore, that I love Monsieur Ferraud ; I thought 
I had the right to love him. I do not blush for this 
confession ; it may offend you, but it dishonors neither 
of us. I cannot hide the truth from 3’ou. When acci¬ 
dent made me a widow, I was not a mother — ” 

The colonel made a sign with his hand as if to ask 
silence of his wife ; and the}" remained silent, not sa}"- 
ing a word for over a mile. Chabert fancied he saw 
her little children before him. 


1T2 


Colonel Cliahert 


“ Rosine! ” 

“ Monsieur?” 

“ The dead do wrong to reappear.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, monsieur, no, no! Do not think me ungrate¬ 
ful. But 3’ou find a mother, a woman W'ho loves an¬ 
other man, where you left a wife. If it is no longer in 
my power to love you, I know what I owe to you, and 
I offer 3'ou still the devotion of a daughter.” 

“Rosine,” said the old man, gentl^^ “I feel no re¬ 
sentment towards you. We will forget all that once 
was,” he said, with one of those smiles whose charm is 
the reflection of a noble soul. “I am not so lost to 
delicac}' as to ask a show of love from a w'oman who no 
longer loves me.” 

The countess gave him such a grateful glance that 
poor Chabert wished in his heart he could return to 
that grave at Eylau. Certain men have souls capable 
of vast sacrifices, whose recompense to them is the cer¬ 
tainty of the happiness of one thej" love. 

“My friend, we will talk of all this later, with a 
quiet mind,” said the countess. 

The* conversation took another turn, for it was im¬ 
possible to continue it long in this strain. Though 
husband and wife constantly touched upon their strange 
position, either b}^ vague allusions, or grave remarks, 
the}" nevertheless made a charming journey, recalling 
many of the events of their union, and of the Empire. 


Colonel ChaherL 


173 


The countess knew how to impart a tender charm to 
these memories, and to cast a tinge of melancholy upon 
the conversation, enough at least to keep it serious. 
She revived love without exciting desire, and showed 
her first husband the mental graces and knowledge she 
had acquired, — trying to let him taste the happiness 
of a father beside a cherished daughter. The colonel 
had known the countess of the Empire, he now saw a 
countess of the Restoration. 

They at last arrived, through a cross-road, at a fine 
park in the little valle}" which separates the heights of 
Margency from the pretty village of Groslay. The 
house was a delightful one, and the colonel saw on 
arriving that all was prepared for their sta}^ Misfor¬ 
tune is a sort of talisman, the power of which lies in 
strengthening and fulfilling our natural man; it in¬ 
creases the distrust and evil tendencies of certain 
natures just as it increases the goodness of those whose 
heart is sound. Misfortune had made the colonel more 
helpful and better than he had ever been ; he was there¬ 
fore able to enter into those secrets of woman’s suffer¬ 
ing which are usually unknown to men. And yet, in 
spite of his great lack of distrust, he could not help 
saying to his wife : — 

“ You seem to have been sure of bringing me here?” 

“Yes,” she answered, “if I found Colonel Chabert 
in the petitioner.” 


174 


Colonel Chahert. 


The tone of truth which she gave to that answer 
dispersed the few doubts which the colonel already felt 
ashamed of admitting. 

For three days the countess was truly admirable in 
her conduct to her first husband. By tender care and 
constant gentleness she seemed to try to efface even 
the memor}' of the sufferings he had endured, and to 
win pardon for the misfortunes she had, as she ad¬ 
mitted, innocently caused. She took pleasure in dis¬ 
playing for his benefit, though always with a sort of 
melancholy, the particular charms under the influence 
of which she knew him to be feeble, — for men are 
more particularh’ susceptible to certain wa3’s, to certain 
graces of heart and mind; and those they are unable 
to resist. She wanted to interest him in her situation, 
to move his feelings enough to control his mind and so 
bend him absolutel}' to her will. Resolved to take an}^ 
means to reach her ends, she was still uncertain what 
to do with the man, though she meant, undoubtedly", to 
destroy him socially. 

On the evening of the third day she began to feel 
that in spite of all her efforts she could no longer con¬ 
ceal the anxiety she felt as to the result of her manmu- 
vreso To obtain a moment’s I’elief she went up to her 
own room, sat down at her writing-table, and took off 
the mask of tranquillity she had worn before the colonel, 
like an actress returning weary to her room after a 


Colonel Chahert. 


175 


trying fifth act and falling half-dead upon a couch, 
while the audience retains an image of her to which she 
bears not the slightest resemblance. She began to 
finish a letter already begun to Delbecq, telling him to 
go to Derville and ask in her name for a sight of the 
papers which concerned Colonel Chahert, to copy them, 
and come immediately' to Groslay, She had hardly 
finished before she heard the colonel’s step in the cor¬ 
ridor ; for he was coming, full of anxiety, to find her. 

“Oh!” she said aloud, ‘‘I wish I were dead I my 
position is intolerable — ” 

“What is it? is anything the matter?” said the 
worthy man. 

“Nothing, nothing,” she said. 

She rose, left the colonel where he was, and went to 
speak to her maid without witnesses, telling her to go 
at once to Paris and deliver the letter, which she gave 
her, into Delbecq’s own hands, and to bring it back to 
her as soon as he read it. Then she went out and seated 
herself on a bench in the garden, where she was in full 
view of the colonel if he wished to find her. He was 
already searching for her and he soon came. 

“ Rosine,” he said, “ tell me what is the matter.” 

She did not answer. It w'as one of those glorious 
calm evenings of the month of June, when all secret 
harmonies diffuse such peace, such sweetness in the 
sunsets. The air was pure, the silence deep, and a 


176 Colonel Chahert. 

distant murmur of children’s voices added a sort of 
melody to the consecrated scene. 

“ You do not answer me,” said the colonel. 

“My husband — ” began the countess, then she 
stopped, made a movement, and said, appealingly, with 
a blush, “ What ought I to say in speaking of Mon¬ 
sieur le Comte Ferraud ? ” 

“ Call him your husband, m}^ poor child,” answered 
the colonel, in a kind tone ; “ he is the father of your 
children.” 

“ Well, then,” she continued, “ if he asks me what I 
am doing here, if he learns that I have shut myself up 
with an unknown man, what am I to saj'? Hear me, 
monsieur,” she went on, taking an attitude that was 
full of dignity, “ decide mj- fate; I feel I am resigned 
to everything — ” 

“ Dear,” said the colonel, grasping his wife’s hands, 
“ I have resolved to sacrifice m3’self wholly to 3’our 
happiness — ” 

“That is impossible,” she cried, with a convulsive 
movement. “Remember that in that case you must 
renounce your own identit3^ — and do so legall3%” 

“What!” exelaimed the colonel, “does not my 
word satisf3^ 3’ou?” 

The term “ legally” fell like lead upon the old man’s 
heart and roused an involuntary distrust. He cast a 
look upon his wife which made her blush; she lowered 


Colonel Chahert, 


111 


her e^^es, and for a moment he feared he should be 
forced to despise her. The countess was alarmed lest 
she had startled the honest shame, the stern upright¬ 
ness of a man whose generous nature and whose primi¬ 
tive virtues were well-known to her. Though these 
ideas brought a cloud to each brow they were suddenly 
dispelled, harmonj^ was restored, — and thus: A child’s 
cry resounded in the distance. 

“ Jules, let 3’our sister alone ! ” cried the countess. 
“What! are your children here?” exclaimed the 
colonel. 

“ Yes, but I forbade them to come in your wa^V’ 

The old soldier understood the delicacy and the 
womanl}^ tact shown in that graceful consideration, and 
he took her hand to kiss it. 

“ Let them come I ” he said. 

The little girl ran up to complain of her brother. 

“ Mamma! he plagued me — ” 

“ Mamma! ” 

“ It was his fault — ” 

“ It was hers — ” 

The hands were stretched out to the mother, and the 
two voices mingled. It was a sudden, delightful picture, 
“M3' poor children!” exclaimed the countess, not 
restraining her tears, “must I lose them? To whom 
will the court give them ? A mother’s heart cannot be 
shared. I will have them ! yes, I — ” 

12 


178 


Colonel Chabert, 


“ You are making mamma said Jules, the elder, 
with an angry look at the colonel. 

“ Hush, Jules ! ” cried his mother, peremptoril3^ 

The two children examined their mother and the 
stranger with an indescribable curiosity. 

“ Yes,” continued the countess, “ if I am parted from 
Monsieur Ferraud, they must leave me my children ; 
if I have them, I can bear all.” 

Those words brought the success she expected. 

“ Yes,” cried the colonel, as if completing a sentence 
he had begun mentally. “ I must return to the grave ; 
I have thought so already.” 

“How can I accept such a sacrifice?” replied the 
countess. ‘ ‘ If men have died to save the honor of 
their mistresses, they gave their lives but once. But 
this would be giving 3^our dail}^ life, j^our lifetime ! No, 
no, it is impossible ; if it were only 3’our existence per¬ 
haps it might be nothing, but to sign a record that 3^011 
are not Colonel Chabert, to admit 3'ourself an impostor, 
to sacrifice 3’our honor, to live a lie for all the da3’s of 
your life, — no; human devotion cannot go to such a 
length! No, no! if it were not for m3" poor children 
I would fl3' with you to the ends of the earth.” 

“But,” said Chabert, “why can I not live here, in 
that little cottage, as a friend and relative. I am as 
useless as an old cannon ; all I need is a little tobacco 
and the ‘ Constitutionnel.' ” 


Colonel Chabert, 


179 


The countess burst into tears. Then followed a 
struggle of generosity between them, from which Colo¬ 
nel Chabert came forth a conqueror. One evening, 
watching the mother in the midst of her children, 
deepl}" moved by that picture of a home, influenced, 
too, by the silence and the quiet of tlie country, he 
came to the resolution of remaining dead; no longer 
resisting the thought of a legal instrument, he asked his 
wife what steps he should take to secure, irrevocably, 
the happiness of that home. 

“ Do what you will,” replied the countess ; “ I declare 
positivel}" that I will have nothing to do with it, — I 
ought not.” 

Delbecq had then been in the house a few days, and, 
in accordance with the countess’s verbal instructions, 
he had wormed himself into the confidence of the old 
soldier. The morning after this little scene Colonel 
Chabert accompanied the former lawyer to Saint-Leu- 
Taverny, where Delbecq had already had an agreement 
drawn up by a notary, in terms so crude and brutal that 
on hearing them the colonel abruptly left the office. 

“Good God! would you make me infamous! wh}", 
I should be called a forger! ” 

“Monsieur,” said Delbecq, “I advise 3^011 not to 
sign too quickl}^ You could get at least thirty thou¬ 
sand francs a 3’ear out of this affair; Madame would 
give them.” 


180 


Colonel Chahert, 


Blasting that scoundrel emeritus with the luminous 
glance of an indignant honest man, the colonel rushed 
from the place driven by a thousand conflicting feel¬ 
ings. He was again distrustful, indignant, and merci¬ 
ful by turns. After a time he re-entered the park of 
Groslay by a breach in the wall, and went, with slow 
steps, to rest and think at his ease, in a little study 
built beneath a raised kiosk which commanded a view 
of the road from Saint-Leu. 

The path was made of that yellow earth which now 
takes the place of river-gravel, and the countess, who 
was sitting in the kiosk above, did not hear the slight 
noise of the colonel’s footstep, being preoccupied with 
anxious thoughts as to the success of her plot. Neither 
did the old soldier become aware of the presence of his 
wife in the kiosk above him. 

“Well, Monsieur Delbecq, did he sign?” asked the 
countess, when she saw the secretary, over the sunk- 
fence, alone upon the road. 

“No, Madame; and I don^t even know what has 
become of him. The old horse reared.” 

“ We shall have to put him in Charenton,” she said ; 
“ we can do it.” 

The colonel, recovering the elasticity of his youth, 
jumped the ha-ha, and in the twinkling of an eye ap¬ 
plied the hardest pair of slaps that ever two cheeks 
received. “ Old horses kick! ” he said. 


Colonel Chahert, 


181 


His anger once over, the colonel had no strength left 
to jump the ditch again. The truth lay before him in 
its nakedness. His wife’s words and Delbecq’s answer 
had shown him the plot to which he had so nearly been 
a victim. The tender attentions he had received were 
the bait of the trap. That thought was like a sudden 
poison, and it brought back to the old hero his past 
sufferings, physical and mental. He returned to the 
kiosk through a gate of the park, walking slowly like 
a broken man. So, then, there was no peace, no truce for 
him ! Must he enter upon that odious struggle with a 
woman which Derville had explained to him ? must he 
live a life of legal suits ? must he feed on gall, and drink 
each morning the cup of bitterness. Then, dreadful 
thought! where was the money for such suits to come 
from. So deep a disgust of life came over him, that had 
a pistol been at hand he would have blown out his brains. 
Then he fell back into the confusion of ideas which, ever 
since his interview with Derville in the cow-yard, had 
changed his moral being. At last, reaching the kiosk, 
he went up the stairs to the upper chamber, whose oriel 
windows looked out on all the enchanting perspectives 
of that well-known valley, and where he found his wife 
sitting on a chair. The countess was looking at the 
landscape, with a calm and quiet demeanor, and that 
impenetrable countenance which certain determined 
women know so well how to assume. She dried her 


182 


Colonel Chahert, 


eyes, as though she had shed tears, and played, as if 
abstractedly, with the ribbons of her sash. Neverthe¬ 
less, in spite of this apparent composure, she could not 
prevent herself from trembling when she saw her noble 
benefactor before her, — standing, his arms crossed, his 
face pale, his brow stern. 

“ Madame,” he said, looking at her so fixedly for a 
moment that he forced her to blush; '‘Madame, I do 
not curse you, but I despise you. I now thank the 
fate which has parted us. I have no desire for ven¬ 
geance ; I have ceased to love you. I want nothing 
from you. Live in peace upon the faith of my word ; 
it is worth more than the legal papers of all the notaries 
in Paris. I shall never take the name I made, per¬ 
haps, illustrious. Henceforth, I am but a poor devil 
named Hyacinthe, who asks no more than a place in 
God’s sunlight. Farewell — ” 

The countess fiung herself at his feet and tried to 
hold him by catching his hands, but he repulsed her 
with disgust, sajdng, “Do not touch me!” 

The countess made a gesture which no description 
can portray when she heard the sound of her husband’s 
departing steps. Then, with that profound sagacity 
which comes of great wickedness, or of the savage, 
material selfishness of this world, she felt she might 
live in peace, relying on the promise and the contempt 
of that loyal soldier. 


Colonel Chahert. 


183 


Chabert disappeared. The cow-keeper failed and 
became a cab-driver. Perhaps the colonel at first 
found some such occupation. Perhaps, like a stone 
fiung into the rapids, he went from fall to fall until he 
sank engulfed in that great pool of filth and penury 
which welters in the streets of Paris. 

Six months after these events Derville, who had 
heard nothing of Colonel Chabert or of the Comtesse 
Ferraud, thought that they had probably settled on a 
compromise, and that the countess, out of spite, had 
emploj’ed some other lawyer to draw the papers. Ac- 
cordingl}", one morning he summed up the amounts ad¬ 
vanced to the said Chabert, added the costs, and 
requested the Comtesse Ferraud to obtain from Mon¬ 
sieur le Comte Chabert the full amount, presuming 
that she knew the whereabouts of her first husband. 

The next day Comte Ferraud’s secretary sent the 
following answer: — 

JVIoNSiEUR, — I am directed by Madame la Comtesse 
Ferraud to inform you that your client totally deceived you, 
and that the individual calling himself the Comte Chabert 
admitted having falsely taken that name. 

Receive the assurance, etc., etc. 

Delbecq. 

“ Well, some people are, upon my honor, as devoid 
of sense as the beasts of the field, — they Ve stolen 


184 


Colonel Chahert, 


their baptism ! ” cried Derville. “ Be human, be gen¬ 
erous, be philanthropic, and 3'ou ’ll find 3^ourself in the 
lurch! Here’s a business that has cost me over two 
thousand francs.’’ 

Not long after the reception of this letter Derville 
was at the Palais, looking for a law3’er with whom he 
wished to speak, and who was in the habit of practising 
in the criminal courts. It so chanced that Derville en¬ 
tered the sixth court-room as the judge was sentencing 
a vagrant named H3mcinthe to two months’ imprison¬ 
ment, the said vagrant to be conve3'ed at the expiration 
of the sentence to the mendicit3" office of the Saint-Denis 
quarter, — a sentence which was equivalent to perpetual 
imprisonment. The name, H3^acinthe, caught Derville’s 
ear, and he looked at the delinquent sitting between two 
gendarmes on the prisoner’s bench, and recognized at 
once his false Colonel Chabert. The old soldier was 
calm, motionless, almost absent minded. In spite of 
his rags, in spite of the povert3" marked on every 
feature of the face, his countenance was instinct with 
noble pride. His glance had an expression of stoicism 
which a magistrate ought not to have overlooked; but 
wdien a man falls into the hands of justice, he is no 
longer an3’thing but an entit3^, a question of law and 
facts ; in the eyes of statisticians, he is a numeral. 

When the soldier w\as taken from the court-room to 
wait until tlie whole batch of vagabonds who were then 


Colonel Chahert. 


185 


being sentenced were ready for removal, Derville used 
his privilege as a lawyer to follow him into the room 
adjoining the sheriff’s office, where he watched him for 
a few moments, together with the curious collection of 
beggars who surrounded him. The ante-chamber of a 
sheriffs office presents at such times a sight which, un¬ 
fortunately, neither legislators, nor philanthropists, nor 
painters, nor writers, ever study. Like all the labora¬ 
tories of the law this antechamber is dark and ill¬ 
smelling ; the walls are protected by a bench, black¬ 
ened b}^ the incessant presence of the poor wretches 
who come to this central rendezvous from all quarters 
of social wretchedness, — not one of which is unrepre¬ 
sented there. A poet would say that the da^dight was 
ashamed to lighten that terrible sink-hole of all miseries. 
There is not one spot within it where crime, planned or 
committed, has not stood ; not a spot where some man, 
rendered desperate by the stigma which justice la3’s 
upon him for his first fault, has not begun a career 
leading to the scaffold or to suicide. All those who fall 
in Paris rebound against these 3’ellow walls, on which 
a philanthropist could decipher the meaning of man}" a 
suicide about which hypocritical writers, incapable of 
taking one step to prevent them, rail; written on those 
walls he will find a preface to the dramas of the Morgue 
and those of the place de Greve. Colonel Chabert was 
now sitting in the midst of this crowd of men with 


186 


Colonel Chahert. 


nervous faces, clothed in the horrible liveries of pov¬ 
erty, silent at times or talking in a low voice, for three 
gendarmes paced the room as sentries, their sabres 
clanging against the floor. 

“Do you recognize me?” said Derville to the old 
soldier. 

“Yes, Monsieur,” said Chabert, rising. 

“ If you are an honest man,” continued Derville, in 
a low voice, “how is it that you have remained my 
debtor?” 

The old soldier colored like a young girl accused by 
her mother of a clandestine love. 

“Is it possible,” he cried in a loud voice, “that 
Madame Ferraud has not paid 3*ou?” 

“ Paid me! ” said Derville, “ she wrote me 3’ou were 
an impostor.” 

The colonel raised his ej^es with a majestic look of 
horror and invocation as if to appeal to heaven against 
this new treacher3\ Monsieur,” he said, in a voice 
that was calm though it faltered, ask the gendarmes to 
be so kind as to let me go into the sheriff’s office ; I will 
there write 3’ou an order which will certainty be paid.” 

Derville spoke to the corporal, and was allowed to take 
his client into the office, where the colonel wrote a few 
lines and addressed them to the Comtesse Ferraud. 

“ Send that to her,” he said, “ and you will be paid 
for 3’our loans and all costs. Believe me, Monsieur, if 


Colonel Chahert. 


187 


I have not shown the gratitude I owe you for your kind 
acts it is none the less there” he said, laying his hand 
upon his heart; “j’esitis there, full, complete. But 
the unfortunate ones can do nothing, — they love, 
that is all.” 

“ Can it be,” said Derville, “ that you did not stipu¬ 
late for an income ? ” 

“ Don’t speak of that,” said the old man. “ You can 
never know how utterly I despise this external life to 
which the majority of men cling so tenaciously. I was 
taken suddenly with an illness, — a disgust for humanity. 
When I think that Napoleon is at Saint-Helena all 
things here below are nothing to me. I can no longer 
be a soldier, that is my onl}^ sorrow. Ah, well,” he 
added, with a gesture that was full of childlike playful¬ 
ness, “it is better to have luxury in our feelings than 
in our clothes. I fear no man’s contempt.” 

He went back to the bench and sat down. Der¬ 
ville went away. When he reached his office, he sent 
Godeschal, then advanced to be second clerk, to the 
Comtesse Ferraud, who had no sooner read the mis¬ 
sive he carried than she paid the money owing to Comte 
Chabert’s lawyer. 

In 1840 , towards the close of the month of June, 
Godeschal, then a lawyer on his own account, was on 
his way to Bis, in company with Derville. When they 


188 


Colonel Chdbert. 


reached the avenue which leads into the mail road to 
Bicetre, they saw beneath an elm by the roadside one 
of those hoary, broken-down old paupers who rule the 
beggars about them, and live at Bicetre just as pauper 
women live at La Salpetriere. This man, one of the 
two thousand inmates of the “ Almshouse for Old Age,” 
was sitting on a stone and seemed to be giving all his 
mind to an operation well-known to the dwellers in 
charitable institutions; that of drying the tobacco in 
their handkerchiefs in the sun, — possibly to escape 
washing them. The old man had an interesting face. 
He was dressed in that gown of dark, reddish cloth 
which the Almshouse provides for its inmates, a dread¬ 
ful sort of livery. 

“ Derville,” said Godeschal to his companion, “do 
look at that old fellow. Is n’t he like those grotesque 
figures that are made in Germany. But I suppose he 
lives, and perhaps he is happ}^! ” 

Derville raised his glass, looked at the pauper, and 
gave vent to an exclamation of surprise ; then he said : 
“That old man, my dear fellow, is a poem, or, as the^ 
romanticists say, a drama. Did you ever meet the 
Comtesse Ferraud ? ” 

“Yes, a clever woman and very agreeable, but too 
pious.” 

“That old man is her legitimate husband, Comte 
Chabert, formerly colonel. No doubt she has had him 


Colonel Chahert. 


189 


placed here. If he lives in an almshouse instead of a 
mansion, it is because he reminded the pretty countess 
that he took her, like a cab, from the streets. I can 
still see the tigerish look she gave him when he 
said it.” 

These words so excited Godeschal’s curiosity that 
Derville told him the whole stoiy. Two days later, on 
the following Monday morning, as they were returning 
to Paris, the two friends glanced at Bic^tre, and Der¬ 
ville proposed that they should go and see Colonel 
Chabert. Half-way up the avenue they found the old 
man sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, and amusing 
himself hy drawing lines on the gravel with a stick 
which he held in his hand. When they looked at him 
attentively they saw that he had been breakfasting 
elsewhere than at the almshouse. 

“ Good-morning, Colonel Chabert,” said Derville. 

“ Not Chabert! not Chabert! my name is Hyacinthe,” 
answered the old man. “I’m no longer a man ; I’m 
number 164, seventh room,” he added, looking at 
Derville with timid anxiety, — the fear of old age or of 
childhood. “You can see the condemned prisoner,” 
he said, after a moment’s silence ; “ he’s not married, 
no ! he’s happy — ” 

“Poor man!” said Godeschal; “don’t you want 
some money for tobacco?” 

The colonel extended his hand with all the naivete 


190 


Colonel Chahert. 


of a street boy to the two strangers, who each gave him 
a twenty-franc gold piece. He thanked them both, with 
a stupid look, and said, “Brave troopers ! ” Then he 
pretended to shoulder arms and take aim at them, 
calling out with a laugh, “ Fire the two pieces, and 
long live Napoleon! ” after which he described an im¬ 
aginary arabesque in the air, with a flourish of his 
cane. 

“ The nature of his wound must have made him 
childish,” said Derville. 

“He childish!” cried another old pauper who was 
watching them. “Ha! there are da 3 ’s when it won’t 
do to step on his toes. He’s a knowing one, full of 
philosophj^ and imagination. But to-da}", don’t you 
see, he’s been keeping Monday. Wh}", Monsieur, he 
was here in 1820. Just about that time a Prussian 
officer, whose carriage was going over the Villejuif hill, 
walked by on foot. H 3 acinthe and I were sitting by 
the roadside. The officer was talking with another, I 
think it was a Russian or some animal of that kind, 
and when the 3 ' saw the old fellow, the Prussian, just 
to tease him, sa 3 *s he: ‘ Here’s an old voltigeur who 
must have been at Rosbach — ’ ‘I was too 3 ’oung to 
be at Rosbach,’ says Hyacinthe, but I’m old enough 
to have been at Jena ! ’ Ha, ha ! that Prussian cleared 
off — and no more questions — ” 

“ What a fate! ” cried Derville ; “ born in the Found- 


Colonel Chahert. 


191 


ling, he returns to die in the asylum of old age, having 
in the interval helped Napoleon to conquer Egypt and 
Europe ! — Do you know, my dear fellow,’’ continued 
Derville, after a long pause, “ that there are three men 
in our social system who cannot respect or value the 
world, — the priest, the physician, and the lawyer. They 
wear black gowns, perhaps because the}^ mourn for all 
virtues, all illusions. The most unhappy among them 
is the lawyer. When a man seeks a priest he is forced 
to it by repentance, by remorse, by beliefs which make 
him interesting, which ennoble him and comfort the 
soul of his mediator, whose duty is not without a certain 
sort of joy; the priest purifies, heals, reconciles. But 
we lawyers ! we see forever the same evil feelings, never 
corrected ; our offices are sink-holes which nothing can 
cleanse. 

“How many things have I not seen and known 
and learned in m 3 " practice! I have seen a father die 
in a garret, penniless, abandoned bj" daughters, to each 
of whom he had given an income of forty thousand 
francs. I have seen wills burned. I have seen mothers 
robbing their children, husbands stealing from their 
wives, wives killing their husbands by the very love 
they inspired, so as to live in peace with their lovers. 
I have seen women giving to the children of a first 
marriage tastes which led them to their death, so that 
the child of love might be enriched. I could not tell 


192 


Colonel Chahert. 


3 ’ou what I have seen, for I have seen crimes against 
W'hich justice is powerless. All the horrors that ro¬ 
mance-writers think they invent are forever below the 
truth. You are about to make acquaintance with such 
things; as for me, I shall live in the country with my 
wife; I have a horror of Paris. ” 

1832. 


THE ATHEIST’S MASS. 


This is dedicated to Auguste Borget, by his friend, 

De Balzac. 


A physician to whom science owes a masterly physi¬ 
ological theory, and who, though still young, has taken 
his place among the celebrities of the School of Paris, 
that centre of medical intelligence to which the phy¬ 
sicians of Europe pay just homage, Doctor Horace 
Bianchon practised surgery for some time before he 
devoted himself to medicine. His studies were directed 
by one of the greatest of French surgeons, the illustri¬ 
ous Desplein, who passed like a meteor through the 
skies of science. Even his enemies admit that he 
carried with him to the grave an incommunicable 
method. Like all men of genius, he had no heirs of 
his faculty; he held all within him, and he carried all^ 
away with him. 

The fame of surgeons is something like that of 
actors; it lives during their lifetime only, and is not 
fully appreciable after they are gone. Actors and 
13 




194 


The Atheist's Mass. 


surgeons, also great singers, and all virtuosi who by 
execution increase the power of music tenfold, are the 
heroes of a moment. Desplein is a proof of the uni¬ 
versal fate of these transitory geniuses. His name, so 
celebrated yesterday, to-day almost forgotten, remains 
within the limits of his specialtj^, and will never reach 
bej^ond them. 

But, let us ask, must there not exist some extraor¬ 
dinary circumstances to bring the name of a great 
worker from the domain of science into the general 
history of humanity? Had Desplein that universality 
of knowledge which makes a man the Word and the 
Form of an era? Desplein possessed an almost divine 
insight; he penetrated both patient and disease with 
an intuition, natural or acquired, which enabled him 
to seize the idiosyncrasies of the individual, and so 
determine the exact moment, to the hour and the 
minute, when it was right to operate, — taking note of 
atmospheric conditions, and peculiarities of tempera¬ 
ment. Was he guided in this by that power of deduc¬ 
tion and analogy to which is due the genius of Cuvier? 
However that may have been, this man certainly made 
himself the confidant of flesh ; he knew its secrets of the 
past, and of the future, as he dealt with its present. 
But did he sum up the whole of science in his own 
person, like Galen, Hippocrates, Aristotle? Has he 
led a school to new and unknown worlds? No. 


The Atheist's Mas8» 


195 


Though it is impossible to deny to this perpetual 
observer of human chemistry some faculty of the an¬ 
cient science of magic, —that is to say, a perception of 
principles in fusion, the causes of life, the life before 
the life, and what the life becomes through its prepa¬ 
rations before being, — we must admit, speaking justly, 
that unfortunately all with Desplein was Self; he was 
isolated in life through egoism, and egoism has killed 
his fame. No speaking statue surmounts his tomb, and 
tells the future of the m^^steries that genius wrested 
from her. But perhaps Desplein’s talent was one 
with his beliefs, and therefore mortal. To him, the 
terrestrial atmosphere was a generating pouch; he saw 
the earth like an egg in its shell; unable to discover 
whether the egg or the hen were the beginning, he de¬ 
nied both the cock and the egg. He believed neither 
in the anterior animal nor in the posterior spirit of man. 

Desplein was not a doubter; he affirmed his beliefs. 
His clear-cut atheism was like that of a great many 
men of science, who are the best people in the world, 
but invincible atheists, atheists like those religious 
folk who will not admit that there can be atheists. 
It could not be otherwise with a man accustomed from 
his earliest youth to dissect the human being before, 
during, and after life; to pry into all its apparatus 
and never find that soul-germ so essential to religious 
theories. Finding in the human body a brain centre, 


196 


The Atheist’^s Mass, 


a nervous centre, a centre of the blood circulation (the 
first two of which so complement each other that during 
the last two da 3 ^s of Desplein’s life he came to a con¬ 
viction that the sense of hearing was not absolutely 
necessar}^ in order to hear, nor the sense of sight abso- 
lutelj" necessary’ in order to see, and that, bej^ond all 
doubt, the solar plexus did replace them), — Desplein, 
we saj", finding thus two souls in man, corroborated his 
atheism b}^ this ver}" fact, though he asserted nothing 
in relation to God. The man died, the world said, in 
the impenitence in which so man}’ men of noblest 
genius unhappily leave this life, — men whom it may, 
perhaps, please God to pardon. 

The life of this man presented, to use the expression 
of his enemies, who were jealous of his fame and sought 
to belittle it, many pettinesses which it is more just to 
call apparent contradictions. Fools and detractors, 
having no knowledge of the influences that act upon 
superior minds, make the most of superficial incon¬ 
sistencies, to bring accusations on which they sit in 
judgment. If, later, success attends the labors of a 
man thus attacked, showing the correlation of prepa¬ 
rations and results, a few of the past calumnies are 
sure to remain fixed upon him. In our day Napoleon 
was condemned by contemporaries when his eagles 
threatened England ; it needed 1822 to explain 1804 
and the flat-boats of Boulogne. 


The Atheist's Mass, 


197 


Desplein’s fame and science were invulnerable; his 
enemies therefore found fault with his odd temper, 
his peculiar character, — the fact being that he merely 
possessed that quality which the English call “eccen¬ 
tricity.” At times gorgeousl}^ dressed, like the tragic 
Crebillon, he would change suddenly to a singular in¬ 
difference in the matter of clothes ; sometimes he drove 
in his carriage, sometimes he went about on foot. By 
turns rough and kind, apparently crabbed and stingy, 
he was capable of offering his whole fortune to his ex¬ 
iled masters, who did him the honor to accept it for a 
few da 3 ’S ; no man was therefore more liable to con¬ 
tradictory judgments. Though capable, in order to 
win that black ribbon which ph 3 "sicians ought never 
to have solicited, of dropping a prayer-book from his 
pocket in some room at the palace, it was more because 
in his heart he sneered at all things. He had the deep¬ 
est contempt for men, having examined them from head 
to foot, having detected their veritable being through all 
the acts of existence, the most solemn and the most in- 
'significant. In great men great qualities often support 
and require each other. Though some among these 
Colossi ma 3 ' have more facult 3 " than mind, their minds 
are nevertheless more enlightened than that of others 
of whom the world says simpl 3 ", “They are men of 
mind.” All genius presupposes a moral insight; that 
insight may be applied to some specialt 3 % but whoso 


198 


The Atheist's Mass. 


can see a flower can see the sun. The story is told of 
Desplein that when he heard a diplomate, whose life he 
had saved, asking “ How is the Emperor?” he replied, 
“ The courtier returns, the man will follow,” — proving 
that he was not onl 3 " a great surgeon and a great ph}’- 
sician, but wonderfully wise and witty. So the patient 
and assiduous student of humanit}^ will admit the ex¬ 
orbitant claims of Desplein, and will think him, as he 
thought himself, fit to be as great a statesman as he 
was a surgeon. 

Among the enigmas oflered to the eyes of contempo¬ 
raries by Desplein’s life we have chosen one of the most 
interesting, because of its final word, which may, per¬ 
haps, vindicate his memory from certain accusations. 

Of all the pupils whom the great surgeon had taught 
in his hospital, Horace Bianchon was the one to whom 
he was most attached. Before becoming a house pupil 
at the Hotel-Dieu, Horace Bianchon was a medical stu¬ 
dent living in a miserable pension in the Latin quarter, 
known under the name of the Maison Vauquer. There 
the poor young fellow felt the assaults of bitter poverty, 
that species of crucible from wLich great talents issue 
pure and incorruptible as diamonds which can bear all 
blows and never break. From the strong fires of their 
vehement passions such natures acquire an uncompro¬ 
mising rectitude ; they gain the habit of those struggles 
w'hich are the lot of genius through constant toil, in 


The Atheut^s Mass, 199 

the dull round of which they are forced to keep their 
balked appetites. 

Horace was an honorable young man, incapable of 
paltering with his sense of duty; given to deeds, not 
w^ords ; read}" to pawn his cloak for a friend, or to give 
him his time and his nights in watching. Horace was, 
indeed, one of those friends who care nothing for what 
they receive in exchange for what they give, sure of 
finding a return in their hearts far greater than the 
value of their gift. Most of his friends felt that in¬ 
ward respect for him which virtue without assumption 
inspires, and many among them feared his censure. 
Horace displayed his fine qualities without conceit. 
Neither a puritan nor a sermonizer, he gave advice 
with an oath, and was ready enough for a “ tron 9 on 
de chiere lie ” when occasion ofiered. A jolly comrade, 
no more prudish than a cuirassier, frank and open, — 
not as a sailor, for sailors now-a-days are wily diplo- 
mates, —but like a brave young fellow with nothing to 
conceal in his life, he walked the earth with his head 
up and his thoughts happy. To express him in one 
sentence, Horace was the Pylades of more than one 
Orestes, creditors being in these days the nearest 
approach to the ancient Furies. He carried his pov¬ 
erty with an easy gayety which is perhaps one of 
the greatest elements of courage, and like all those 
who have nothing he contracted few debts. Sober as 


200 


The Atheut^B Mass, 


a camel, agile as a deer, he was firm in his ideas, and 
in his conduct. Bianchon’s successful life may be 
said to have begun on the day when the illustrious 
surgeon became fully aware of the virtues and the 
defects which made Doctor Horace Bianchon so doubly 
dear to his friends. 

When a clinical chief takes a young man into his 
rounds that young man has, as they say, his foot in the 
stirrup. Desplein always took Bianchon with him for 
the sake of his assistance when he went among his opu¬ 
lent patients, where many a fee dropped into the pupil’s 
pouch, and where, little by little, the m^ysteries of 
Parisian life revealed themselves to his provincial eyes. 
Desplein kept him in his study during consultations 
and employed him there ; sometimes he sent him trav¬ 
elling with a rich patient to baths ; in short, he provided 
him with a practice. The result was that, after a time, 
the autocrat of surgerj^ had an alter ego. These two 
men — one at the summit of science and of all honors, 
enjo 3 fing a large fortune and a great fame; the other, 
the modest omega, without either fame or fortune — be¬ 
came intimates. The great Desplein told his pupil every¬ 
thing ; the pupil knew what woman had been seated in 
a chair beside the master, or on the famous sofa which 
was in the study and on which Desplein slept; Bian¬ 
chon knew the mysteries of that temperament, half¬ 
lion, half-bull, which finally expanded and amplified 


The AtheisVs Mass. 


201 


beyond all reason the great man’s chest, and caused 
his death by enlargement of the heart. He studied 
the eccentricities of that busy life, the schemes of 
that sordid avarice, the hopes of the politic man hid¬ 
den in the scientific man; he was therefore fitted to 
detect the deceptions, had any existed, in the sole 
sentiment buried in a heart that was less hard than 
hardened. 

One day Bianchon told Desplein that a poor water- 
carrier in the quartier Saint-Jacques had a horrible 
disease caused by over-work and poverty; this poor 
Auvergnat had eaten nothing but potatoes during the 
severe winter of 1821. Desplein left all his patients 
and rushed off, followed by Bianchon, and took the 
poor man himself to a private hospital established by 
the famous Dubois, in the faubourg Saint-Denis. He 
attended the man personally, and when he recovered 
gave him enough money to bu}’ a horse and a water- 
cart. This Auvergnat was remarkable for an original 
act. One of his friends fell ill, and he took him at 
once to Desplein, saying to his benefactor, “ I would n’t 
hear of his going to any one else.” Gruff as he was, 
Desplein pressed the water-carrier’s hand. ‘ ‘ Bring 
them all to me,” he said; and he put the friend in the 
Hotel-Dieu, where he took extreme care of him. Bian¬ 
chon had already noticed several times the evident 
predilection his chief felt for an Auvergnat, and es- 


202 


The Atheist'* 8 Mass. 


pecially for a water-carrier, but as Desplein’s pride was 
in the management of his hospital cases the pupil saw 
nothing really strange in the incident. 

One day, crossing the place Saint-Sulpice, Bianchon 
caught sight of his master entering the church about 
nine o’clock in the morning. Desplein, who at that 
time of his life went everywhere in his cabriolet, was 
on foot, and was slipping along bj^ the rue du Petit- 
Lion as if in quest of some questionable resort. Natu¬ 
rally seized with curiositj^, the pupil, who knew the 
opinions of his master, slipped into Saint-Sulpice him¬ 
self, and was not a little amazed to see the great 
Desplein, that atheist without pity even for the angels 
who so little require a scalpel and cannot have stomach¬ 
aches or fistulas, in short, that bold scoffer, humbly 
kneeling — where ? in the chapel of the Virgin, before 
whom he was hearing a mass, paying for the service, 
giving money for the poor, and as serious in demeanor 
as if preparing for an operation. 

“Heavens!” thought Bianchon, whose amazement 
w^as be 3 ’ond all bounds. “ If I had seen him holding 
one of the ropes of the canopy at the Fete-Dieu I 
should have known it was all a joke ; but here, at this 
hour, alone, without witnesses I Certainlj^ it is some¬ 
thing to think about.” 

Not wishing to seem to spy upon the great surgeon 
of the Hotel-Dieu, Bianchon went away. It so chanced 


The Atheist's Mass, 


203 


that Desplein asked him to dine with him that day, 
away from home, at a restaurant. By the time the 
dessert appeared Bianchon had reached by clever stages 
the topic of religious services, and called the mass a 
a farce and a mummery. 

“A farce,” said Desplein, “which has cost Chris¬ 
tianity more blood than all the battles of Napoleon and 
all the leeches of Broussais. The mass is a papal 
invention based on the Hoc est corpus, aud dates back 
to the sixth century onl 3 \ What torrents of blood had 
to flow to establish the Fete-Dieu, by the institution of 
which the court of Rome sought to confirm its victory 
in the matter of the Real Presence, — a schism which 
kept the church in hot water for three centuries ! The 
wars of the Comte de Toulouse and the Albigenses were 
the sequel of it. The Vaudois and the Albigenses both 
refused to accept that innovation — ” 

And Desplein launched with all an atheist’s ardor into 
a flux of Voltairean sarcasm, or, to be more exact, into 
a wretched imitation of the “ Citateur.” 

“Whew!” thought Bianchon; “where’s the man 
who was on his knees this morning?” 

He was silent, for he began to doubt whether he had 
really seen his chief at Saint-Sulpice after all. Desplein 
would surely never have troubled himself to deceive 
him. They knew each other too well, had exchanged 
thoughts or questions fully as serious, and discussed 


204 


The AtheisVs Mass, 


S 3 ’stems de natura rerum^ probing them or dissecting 
them with the knife and scalpel of unbelief. 

Six months went b 3 ^ Bianchon took no outward 
notice of this circumstance, though it remained stamped 
in his memoiy. One day a doctor belonging to the 
Hotel-Dieu took Desplein by the arm in Bianchon’s 
presence as if to question him, and said, — 

“ Why did 3 ’ou go to Saint-Sulpice to-day, my dear 
master? ” 

To see a priest with caries of the knee whom 
Madame la Duchesse d’Angouleme did me the honor 
to recommend to me,” replied Desplein. 

The doctor was satisfied, but not so Bianchon. 

“Ha! he went to see a stiff knee in a church, 
did he?” thought the pupil. “He went to hear his 
mass.” 

Bianchon resolved to watch Desplein. He recollected 
the da}' and hour at which he had seen him entering 
Saint-Sulpice, and he determined to return the next 
year at the same time and see if he should surprise 
him in the same place. If so, then the periodicity of 
his devotion would warrant scientific investigation; for 
it was impossible to expect in such a man a positive 
contradiction between thought and action. 

The following 3 'ear, at the time named, Bianchon, 
who was now no longer Desplein’s pupil, saw the 
surgeon’s cabriolet stop at the corner of the rue de 


The Atheist's Mass, 


205 


Tournon and the rue du Petit-Lion, from which point 
his friend slipped jesuitically along the wall of the 
church, where he again entered and heard mass be¬ 
fore the altar of the Virgin. Yes, it assuredly was 
Desplein, the surgeon-in-chief, the atheist in petto, the 
pietist by chance. The plot thickened. The persist¬ 
ency of the illustrious surgeon added a complication. 

When Desplein had left the church, Bianchon went 
up to the verger, who was rearranging the altar, and 
asked him if that gentleman were in the habit of 
coming there. 

“It is twenty j^ears since I came here,” said the 
verger, “ and ever since then Monsieur Desplein comes 
four times a year to hear this mass. He founded it.” 

“A mass founded by him!” thought Bianchon as 
he walked awa 3 ^ “It is a greater mystery" than the 
Immaculate Conception, — a thing, in itself, which would 
make any doctor an unbeliever.” 

Some time went by before Doctor Bianchon, though 
Desplein’s friend, was in a position to speak to him of 
this singularity of his life. When they met in consul¬ 
tation or in society it was difficult to find that moment 
of confidence and solitude in which thej' could sit with 
their feet on the andirons, and their heads on the back 
of their chairs, and tell their secrets as two men do at 
such times. At last, however, after the revolution of 
1830, when the populace attacked the Archbishop’s 


206 


The Atheist’^s Mass, 


palace, when republican instigations drove the crowd 
to destro}^ the gilded crosses which gleamed like flashes 
of lightning among the man}" roofs of that ocean of 
houses, when unbelief, keeping pace with the riot, 
strutted openly in the streets, Bianchon again saw 
Desplein entering Saint-Sulpice. He followed him and 
knelt beside him, but his friend made no sign and 
showed not the least surprise. Together the}" heard 
the mass. 

“Will you tell me, my dear friend,” said Bianchon, 
when they had left the church, ‘ ‘ the reason for this 
pious performance? This is the third time I have 
caught you going to mass, you! You must tell me 
what this mystery means, and explain the discrepancy 
between your opinions and your conduct. You don’t 
believe, but you go to mass I My dear master, I hold 
you bound to answer me.” 

“I am like a great many pious people, — men who 
are deeply religious to all appearance, but who are 
really as much atheists at heart as you or I — 

And he went on with a torrent of sarcasms on certain 
political personages, the best known of whom presents 
to this century a new and living edition of the Tartufe 
of Moliere. 

“I am not talking to you about that,” said Bianchon; 
“ I want to know the reason for what you have just 
done; and why you founded that mass?” 


The Atheist's Mass, 


207 


“Ah, well! my dear friend,” replied Desplein, “I 
am on the verge of my grave, and I can afford to tell 
you the events of my early life.” 

Just then Bianchon and the great surgeon were pass¬ 
ing through the rue des Quatre-Vents, one of the most 
horrible streets in Paris. Desplein pointed to the sixth 
story of a house that looked like an obelisk, the gate of 
which opened upon a passage-way at the end of which 
was a winding stair lighted by holes in the planked side 
of it. It was a greenish-looking house, occupied on the 
ground-floor by a furniture-dealer, and seeming to 
harbor on each story some different form of poverty. 
Desplein threw up his arm with an energetic action 
and said to Bianchon, “I once lived up there for two 
years.” 

“I know the house; d’Arthez lived in it. I went 
there nearly every day in mj^^ early youth; we used to 
call it the ‘ harbor of great men.’ Well, what next?” 

“The mass I have just heard is connected with events 
which happened when I lived in the garret where 3 "Ou 
say d’Arthez lived, — that one, where you see the 
clothes-line and the linen above the flower-pots. 
beginnings were so hard, my dear Bianchon, that I 
can bear away the palm of Parisian sufferings from 
every one, no matter who. I have endured all, — hun¬ 
ger, thirst, the want of a penn^^ of linen, boots, all, 
even the worst that poverty can bring. I have blown 


208 


The Atheist'^s Mass, 


upon my frozen fingers in that harbor of great men, 
which I should like now to see again with 3"OU. I have 
worked there a whole winter and seen the vapor issu¬ 
ing from m}^ head just as 3’ou see horses smoking in 
frosty weather. 

“ I don’t know where a man can take his stand and 
find support against a life like that. I was alone, with¬ 
out help, without a sou to buy books, or to pay the 
costs of my medical education; having no friend to 
understand me, my irascible temper, uneasy and 
touchy as it is, did me harm. No one saw in my irri¬ 
table wa3"s the evidence of the anxiety and toil of a 
man who from the lowest social state is struggling to 
reach the surface. But I had, — and this I can srj to 
you before whom there is no need that I should drape 
myself, — I had that understratum of right feelings and 
keen sensibilitj- which will alwa3’s be the attribute of 
men who are strong enough to mount a height, no 
matter what it is, after paddling long in the swamps 
of miserj^ I could ask nothing of m3" famil3', nor of 
my native town, be3’ond the insufficient allowance that 
they made me. 

“ Well, at this time of m3" life, I made my breakfast 
of a roll sold to me b3" the baker of the rue du Petit- 
Lion at half-price, because it was a da3" or two da3's 
old, and I crumbled it into some milk. So m3’’ morning 
repast cost me exactl3" two sous. I dined, every other 


The AtheisVs Mass. 


209 


clay only, in a pension where the dinner cost sixteen 
sous. Thus I spent no more than ten sous a clay. 
You know as well as I do what care I had to take of 
my clothes and my boots ! I really can’t tell whether 
we suffer more in after years from the treachery of a 
tried friend than you and I have suffered from the 
smiling grin of a crack in our boots, or the threadbare 
look of a coat-sleeve. I drank nothing but water, and 
I held the cafes in reverence. Zoppi seemed to me the 
promised land, where the Luculluses of the Latin quarter 
alone had the right of entrance. ‘ Shall I ever,’ I 
used to say to myself, ‘ drink a cup of coffee there, 
with cream, and play a game of dominoes? ’ 

“ So I let loose upon my work the rage my misery 
caused me. I tried to possess myself of positive knowl¬ 
edge, so as to have a vast personal value, and thus de¬ 
serve distinction when the day came that I should issue 
from my nothingness. I consumed more oil than bread ; 
the lamp which lighted me during those toilsome nights 
cost me more than all my food. The struggle was long, 
obstinate, and without alleviation. I awakened no sym- 
path}" in any one about me. To have friends we must 
be friendly with young men, we must have a few sous 
to tipple with, we must frequent the places where other 
students go; but I had nothing! Who is there in 
Paris who realizes that nothing is nothing? When I 
was forced at times to reveal my poverty my throat 
14 


210 


The Atheut's Mass, 


contracted just as it does with our patients, who then 
imagine that a ball is rolling up from the oesophagus to 
the laiynx. In later 3"ears 1 have met these people, 
born rich, who, never having wanted for anything, knew 
nothing of the problem of this rule of three : A young 
man is to crime what a five-franc piece is to x. These 
gilded imbeciles would say to me: ‘ But why do j’ou 
run in debt? why do j^ou saddle yourself with obliga¬ 
tions?’ The}" remind me of the princess who, when 
she heard the people were d3ung for want of bread, 
remarked : ‘ Why don’t they bu}" cake ? ’ 

“Well, well, I should like to see one of those rich 
fellows who complain that I charge them too dear for 
m3" operations,—3"es, I should like to see one of them 
alone in Paris, without a penn}" to bless himself with, 
without a friend, without credit, and forced to work 
with his five fingers to get food. What would he do ? 
where would he go to appease his hunger ? — Bianchon, 
if 3"ou have sometimes seen me hard and bitter, it was 
when I was setting my earl}" sufferings against the un¬ 
feeling selfishness of which I have had ten thousand 
proofs in the upper ranks of life ; or else I was thinking 
of the obstacles which hatred, env}", jealous}", and cal¬ 
umny had raised between success and me. In Paris, 
when certain persons see you about to put your foot in 
the stirrup some of them will catch you by the tails of 
your coat, others will loosen the buckles of the belly- 


The Atheist's Mass, 


211 


band to give 3’ou a fall which will crack your skull; 
that one will pull the nails out of the horses’ shoes, that 
other will steal your whip; the least treacherous is he 
whom you see approaching with a pistol to blow out 
3^our brains, 

“ Ah ! my dear lad, 3"Ou have talent enough to be soon 
plunged into the horrible strife, the incessant warfare 
which mediocrit}^ wages against superior men. If you 
lose twent3’-five louis some evening the next day you 
are accused of being a gambler, and 3’our best friends 
will spread the news that you have lost twent3"-five 
thousand francs. Have a headache, and the3'’ll say 
3"Ou are insane. Get angr3", and the3^ ’ll call you a 
Timon. If, for the purpose of resisting this battalion 
of p3’gmies, you call up within 3’ou all the powers you 
possess, your best friends will cr3" out that 3"Ou want to 
destro3" everything, that 3'ou want to rule, to tyrannize. 
In short, 3"Our fine qualities are called defects, 3"our 
defects vices, and 3^our vices crimes. Though you may 
save a patient you will have the credit of killing him ; 
if he recovers, you have sacrificed his future life to the 
present; if he does n’t die, he soon will. Slip, and 3"ou 
are down ! Make an invention, claim 3'our right to it, 
and you are a quarrelsome knave, a stingy man, who 
won’t let the 3’oung ones have a chance. 

“And so, m3^ dear fellow, if I don’t believe in God, 
still less do I believe in man. Don’t 3’ou know that 


212 


Tlie Atheist's Mass, 


there is in me a Desplein who is totalh^ different from 
the Desplein whom the world traduces ? But don’t let 
us drag that mudd}^ pond. 

“ Well, to go back, I lived in that house, and I was 
working to pass mj^ first examination and I had n’t a 
brass farthing. You know ! — I had reached that last 
extremity where a man saj’s, ‘I’ll pawn!’ I had 
one hope. I expected a trunk of underclothing from 
m}' home, a present from some old aunts, who, knowing 
nothing of Paris, think about 3'our shirts, and imagine 
that with an allowance of thirty francs a month their 
nephew must be living on ortolans. The trunk arrived 
one da}^ when I was at the hospital; the carriage cost 
fort}* francs! The porter, a German shoemaker who 
lived in the loft, paid the money and kept the trunk. 
I walked about the rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain-des 
Pres and the rue de L’Ecole-de-Medecine without being 
able to invent any stratagem by which I could get 
possession of that trunk without paying the forty 
francs, which I could, of course, pay at once as soon 
as I had sold the underclothes. My stupidity was 
enough to prove that I had no other vocation than that 
of surgery. My dear Bianchon, sensitive souls whose 
forces work in the higher spheres of thought, lack the 
spirit of intrigue which is so fertile in resources and 
schemes; their good genius is chance, — they don’t seek, 
they find. 



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Copyright 1836 ^ Roberts Bros 


Precede Gbupil 










The Atheut's Mass, 


213 


“ That night I entered the house just as my neigh¬ 
bor, a water-carrier named Bourgeat, from Saint-Flour, 
came home. We knew each other as two tenants must 
when their rooms are on the same land' .g, and they 
hear one another snore, and cough, and dress, and 
at length become accustomed to one another. My 
neighbor tol^ Ty >9 that the proprietor of the house, to 
whom I r- three months rent, had turned me out; 
I was warned to quit the next da3\ He himself was 
also told to leave on account of his occupation. I 
passed the most dreadful night of my life. How could 
I hire a porter to carry away my few poor things, my 
books? how could I pay him? where could I go? 
These insoluble questions I said over and over to 
mj’self in tears, just as madmen repeat their sing¬ 
song. I fell asleep. Ah ! poverty alone has the divine 
slumber full of glorious dreams ! 

“ The next morning, as I was eating my bowlful of 
bread and milk, Bourgeat came in, and said in his 
patois, ‘ Monsieur, I’m a poor man, a foundling froni 
the hospital at Saint-Flour, without father or mother, 
and I’m not rich enough to marry. You are no bet¬ 
ter off for friends, and relations, and money, as I 
judge. Now listen ; there is a hand-cart out there 
which I have hired for two sous an hour; it will hold 
all our things ; if you like, we can go and find some 
cheap lodging which will hold us both, as we are both 


214 


The Atheist's Mass, 


turned out of here. After all, you know, it isn’t a 
terrestrial paradise.’ ‘ I know that,’ I said, ' my good 
Bourgeat, but 1 am in a great quandary; I have a 
trunk downstairs which contains at least three hun¬ 
dred francs’ worth of linen, with which I could pay 
the proprietor if I could only get it from the porter, to 
whom I owe forty francs for the carriage.’ ‘ Bah ! ’ he 
cried, cheeril}*, ‘ I’ve got a few pennies tucked away ;’ 
and he pulled out a dirty old leather purse. ‘ Keep your 
linen ; 3^ou ’ll want it.’ 

“ Bourgeat paid my three months’ rent, and his own, 
and the porter. He put all our things and the trunk 
into his hand-cart, and dragged it through the streets, 
stopping before each house where a sign was up. Then 
I went in to see if the place would suit us. At mid- 
daj" we were still wandering round the Latin quarter 
without having found what we wanted. The price was 
the great obstacle. Bourgeat invited me to breakfast 
in a wine-shop, leaving the hand-cart before the door. 
Towards evening, I found in the Cour de Rohan, pas¬ 
sage du Commerce, on the top-floor of a house, under 
the roof, two rooms, separated by the staircase. For a 
yearly rent of sixty francs each, we were able to take 
them. So there we were, housed, mj humble friend and 
I. We dined together. Bourgeat, who earned about 
fifty sous a day, possessed something like three hun¬ 
dred francs. He was close upon realizing his great 


The Atheist^s Mass, 


215 


ambition, which was to a horse and a water-cart. 
Learning m3" situation, for he wormed my secrets out 
of me, with a depth of cunning and an air of good- 
fellowship the remembrance of which to this day stirs 
every fibre of my heart, he renounced, for a time, the 
ambition of his life. Bourgeat never attained it ; he 
sacrificed his three hundred francs to m3" future.” 

Desplein clasped the arm he held, violently. 

‘ ‘ He gave me the money I needed for my examina¬ 
tions. That man — my friend — felt that I had a mis¬ 
sion ; that the needs of m3’ intellect were greater than 
his own. He busied himself with me ; he called me his 
son ; he lent me the money I needed to buy books ; he 
came in sometimes, veiy softl3’, to watch me at work; 
he substituted, with the forethought of a mother, a 
nourishing and sufficient diet for the poor fare to which 
X had been so long condemned. Bourgeat, a man then 
about forty 3’ears of age, had a middle-aged burgher 
face, a prominent forehead, and a head which a painter 
might have chosen for a model for L3’curgus. The poor 
soul had a heart full of unplaced affection. He had 
never been loved except by a dog which had recently 
died, and of which he often spoke to me, asking whether 
I thought the Church would be willing to say masses 
for the repose of its soul. That dog, he said, was a 
true Christian, who for twelve years had gone with 
him to church and never barked, listening to the organ 


216 


The Atheisms Mass, 


without opening his jaws, and crouching by him when 
he knelt as if he prayed also. 

“That man, that Auvergne water-carrier, spent all 
his alfection upon me. He accepted me as a lonely, 
suffering human being; he became my mother, my deli¬ 
cate benefactor ; in short, the ideal of that virtue which 
delights in its own work. When I met him about his 
business in the street he flung me a glance of inconceiv¬ 
able generosity; he pretended to walk as if he carried 
nothing; he showed his happiness in seeing me in good 
health and well-clothed. His devotion to me was that 
of the people,—the love of a grisette for one above 
her. Bourgeat did m}^ errands, woke me at night when 
I had to be called, cleaned m3' lamp, polished m3' floor; 
as good a servant as a kind father, and as clean as 
an English girl. He kept house. Like Philopoemen, 
he sawed our wood, and gave to all his actions the 
simple dignity of toil; for he seemed to comprehend 
that the object ennobled all. 

“ When I left that noble man to enter the Hotel- 
Hieu as an indoor pupil, he suffered dark distress from 
the thought that he could no longer live with me; but 
he consoled himself with the idea of laying b3" the 
mone3' required for the expenses of my thesis, and he 
made me promise to come and see him on all m3' da3's 
out. If you will look up my thesis you will find that 
it is dedicated to him. 


The Atheisfs Mass, 


217 


“ During the last year I was in hospital I earned 
money enough to return all I owed to that noble Auver- 
gnat, with which I bought him his horse and water-cart. 
He was very angry when he found out I had deprived 
myself of my earnings, and yet delighted to see his 
desires realized ; he laughed and scolded, looked at his 
cart and at his horse, and wiped his eyes, saying to me : 
‘ It is all wrong. Oh, what a fine cart! You had no 
right to do it; that horse is as strong as an Auvergnat.* 
Never did I see anything as touching as that scene. 
Bourgeat positively insisted on buying me that case of 
instruments mounted in silver which you have seen in 
m}^ study, and which is to me the most precious of my 
possessions. Though absolutely intoxicated by my 
success, he never b}^ word or gesture let the thought 
escape him, ‘ It is to me that he owes it.’ And yet, 
without him, misery would have killed me. 

“ The poor man had wrecked himself for me; all he 
ate was a little bread rubbed with garlic, that I might 
have coffee for my studious nights. He fell ill. You 
can well believe that I spent nights at his bedside. I 
pulled him through the first time, but he had a relapse 
two 3'ears later, and, in spite of all my care, he died. 
No king was ever cared for as he was. Yes, Bianchon, 
to save that life I tried amazing things. I longed to 
make him live as the witness of his own work; to 
realize his hopes, to satisfy" the sole gratitude that ever 


218 The Atheut's Mass. 

entered my heart, to extinguish a fire which burns there 
still. 

“ Bourgeat,” resumed Despleiu, with visible emotion, 
“ my second father, died in m}^ arms, leaving all he pos¬ 
sessed to me, in a will drawn up by a street writer and 
dated the year we went to live in the Cour de Rohan. 
That man had the faith of his kind; he loved the 
Blessed Virgin as he would have loved his wife. An 
ardent Catholic, he never said one word to me about my 
irreligion. When he was in danger of death he asked 
me to spare nothing that he might have the succor of the 
Church. Eveiy day masses were said for him. Often 
during the night he would tell me of his fears for the 
future; he thought he had not lived devoutly enough. 
Poor man ! he had toiled from morning till night. To 
whom else does heaven belong, — if indeed there is a 
heaven? He received the last offices of religion, like 
the saint that he was, and his death was worthy of his 
life. I, alone, followed him to the grave. When the 
earth covered my sole benefactor I sought a way to 
pay my debt to him. He had neither family, nor 
friends, nor wife, nor children, but, he believed! he 
had a deep religious belief; what right had I to dispute 
it? He had timidly spoken to me of masses for the 
repose of the dead, but he never imposed that duty 
upon me, thinking, no doubt, it would seem like pa}^- 
ment for his services. The moment I was able to 


The Atheist’’s Mass. 


219 


found a mass I gave Saint-Sulpice the necessary sum 
for four yearly services. As the sole thing I can offer 
to Bourgeat is the satisfaction of his pious wishes, I 
go in his name and recite for him the appointed prayers 
at the beginning of each season. I sa}^ with the sin¬ 
cerity of a doubter: ‘ My God, if there be a sphere 
where thou dost place after death the souls of the 
perfect, think of the good Bourgeat; and if there is 
anything to be suffered for him, grant me those suffer¬ 
ings that he may the sooner enter what, they say, is 
heaven.’ 

“ That, my dear friend, is all a man of my opinions 
can do. God must be a good sort of devil, and he ’ll 
not blame me. I swear to you I would give all I am 
worth if Bourgeat’s belief could enter my brain.” 

Bianchon, who took care of Desplein in his last 
illness, dares not affirm that the great surgeon died an 
atheist. Believers will like to think that the humble 
water-carrier opened to him the gates of heaven, as he 
had once opened to him the portals of that terrestial 
temple on the pediment of which are inscribed the 
words: — 

“To HER Great Men, a grateful Country!” 


1836 . 




LA GRANDE BRETRCHE, 


“ Ah ! Madame,” replied Doctor Horace Bianchon 
to the lady at whose house he was supping, “it is 
true that I have many terrible histories in my reper- 
toiy; but every tale has its due hour in a conversa¬ 
tion, according to the clever sajung reported by 
Chamfort and said to the Due de Fronsac: “There 
are ten bottles of champagne between 3'our joke and 
the present moment.” 

“But it is past midnight; what better hour could 
you have?” said the mistress of the house. 

“Yes, tell us, Monsieur Bianchon,” urged the as¬ 
sembled compan3^ 

At a gesture from the complying doctor, silence 
reigned. 

“About a hundred 3’ards from Vendome,” he said, 
“on the banks of the Loir, is an old brown house, 
covered with very steep roofs, and so completeh" 
isolated that there is not so much as an evil-smelling 
tannery, nor a shabby inn such as 3’ou see at the en¬ 
trance of all little towns, in its neighborhood. In 



222 


La Grande Breteche, 


front of this dwelling is a garden overlooking the 
river, where the box edgings, once carefully clipped, 
which bordered the paths, now cross them and straggle 
as they fancy. A few willows with their roots in the 
Loir have made a rapid growth, like the enclosing 
hedge, and together they half hide the house. Plants 
which we call weeds drape the bank towards the river 
with their beautiful vegetation. Fruit-trees, neglected 
for half a score of years, no longer yield a product, and 
their shoots and suckers have formed an undergrowth. 
The espaliers are like a hornbeam hedge. The paths, 
formerly gravelled, are full of purslain ; so that, strictly 
speaking, there are no paths at all. 

“From the crest of the mountain, on which hang 
the ruins of the old castle of Vendome (the only spot 
whence the eye can look down into this enclosure) we 
say to ourselves that at an earlier period, now difficult 
to determine, this corner of the earth was the delight 
of some gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a 
word, to horticulture, but above all possessing a keen 
taste for good fruits. An arbor is still standing, or 
rather the remains of one, and beneath it is a table 
which time has not yet completely demolished. 

“ From the aspect of this garden, now no more, the 
negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces can 
be inferred, just as we infer the life of some worthy 
from the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the sad 


La Grande Breteche, 


223 


and tender ideas which take possession of the soul, a 
sundial on the wall bears this inscription, Christian yet 
bourgeois, ‘ Ultimam Cogita.’ The roofs are dilapi¬ 
dated, the blinds alwaj^s closed, the balconies are filled 
with swallows’ nests, the gates are locked. Tall herbs 
and grasses trace in green lines the chinks and crevices 
of the stone portico; the locks are rusty. Sun and 
moon, summer and winter and snow have rotted the 
wood, warped the planks, and worn away the paint. 
The gloomy silence is unbroken save by the birds, the 
cats, the martens, the rats, the mice, all free to scamper 
or and to fight, and to eat themselves up. 

“ An invisible hand has written the word ‘ Mystery’ 
everywhere. If, impelled by curiosity, you wish to 
look at this house, on the side towards the road you 
will see a large gate with an arched top, in which the 
children of the neighborhood have made large holes. 
This gate, as I heard later, had been disused for ten 
years. Through these irregular holes 3’ou can observe 
the perfect harmony which exists between the garden 
side, and the courtyard side of the premises. The 
same neglect everywhere. Lines of grass surround 
the paving-stones. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, 
the blackened eaves of which are festooned with pelli- 
tory. The steps of the portico are disjointed, the rope 
of the bell is rotten, the gutters are dropping apart. 
What fire from heaven has fallen here? What tribunal 


224 


La Grande Breteche, 


has ordained that salt be cast upon this dwelling? Has 
God been mocked here; or France betra3"ed ? These 
are the questions we ask as we stand there; the rep¬ 
tiles crawl about but the^" give no answer. 

“ This empty and deserted house is a profound 
enigma, whose solution is known to none. It was 
formerly a small fief, and is called La Grande Breteche. 
During my sta}" at Vendome, where Desplein had sent 
me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange 
dwelling was one of my keenest pleasures. It was bet¬ 
ter than a ruin. A ruin possesses memories of positive 
authenticit}"; but this habitation, still standing, though 
slowly demolished by an avenging hand, contained some 
secret, some mysterious thought, — it betrayed at least 
a strange caprice. 

“ More than once of an evening I jumped the hedge, 
now a tangle, which guarded the enclosure. I braved 
the scratches ; I walked that garden without a master, 
that property which was neither public nor private ; for 
hours I sta3’ed there contemplating its deca3’’. Not 
even to obtain the histor3^ which underlay (and to 
which no doubt was due) this strange spectacle would 
I have asked a single question of an3- gossiping coun¬ 
tryman. Standing there I invented enchanting tales ; 
I gave myself up to debauches of melanchol3" which 
fascinated me. Had I known the reason, perhaps a 
common one, for this strange desertion, I should have 


La Grrande BretecJie, 


225 


lost the unwritten poems with which I intoxicated m\’- 
self. To me ttiis sanctuarj’ evoked the most varied 
images of human life darkened by sorrows ; sometimes 
it was a cloister without the nuns ; sometimes a grave¬ 
yard and its peace, without the dead who talk to 3’^ou in 
epitaphs ; to-da}’’ the house of the leper, to-morrow that 
of the Atrides; but above all was it the provinces with 
their composed ideas, their hour-glass life. 

“ Often I wept there, but I never smiled. More than 
once an involuntary^ terror seized me, as I heard above 
my head the muffled whirr of a ringdove’s wings 
hurrying past. The soil is damp; care must be taken 
against the lizards, the vipers, the frogs, which w^ander 
about with the wild hberty of nature; above all, it is 
well not to fear cold, for there are moments w’hen you 
feel an icy^ mantle laid upon y'our shoulders like the 
hand of the Commander on the shoulder of Don Juan. 
One evening I shuddered; the wind had caught and 
turned a rusty’ vane. Its creak was like a moan issuing 
from the house ; at a moment, too, when I was ending 
a gloomy’ drama in which I explained to myself the 
monumental dolor of that scene. 

“ That night I returned to my inn, a prey^ to gloomy 
thoughts. After I had supped the landlady entered my 
room with a my’sterious air, and said to me, ‘ Mon¬ 
sieur, Monsieur Regnault is here.’ 

“ ‘ Who is Monsieur Regnault?’ 

15 


226 


La Grande BretecJie. 


“‘Is it possible that Monsieur does n’t know Mon¬ 
sieur Rcgnault? Ah, how funny J’ she said, leaving 
the room. 

“ Suddenly I beheld a long, slim man, clothed in black, 
holding his hat in his hand, who presented himself, 
much like a ram about to leap on a rival, and showed 
me a retreating forehead, a small, pointed head and a 
livid face, in color somewhat like a glass of dirty water. 
You would have taken him for the usher of a minister. 
This unknown personage wore an old coat much worn 
in the folds, but he had a diamond in the frill of his 
shirt, and gold earrings in his ears. 

“ ‘ Monsieur, to whom have I the honor of speaking? ’ 
I said. 

“ He took a chair, sat down before mj' fire, laid his 
hat on my table and replied, rubbing his hands : ‘ Ah ! 
it is very cold. Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.’ 

“I bowed, saying to m3^self: ‘ 7 / hondo card! 
seek! ’ 

“ ‘ I am,’ he said, ‘ the notary of Venddme.’ 

“ ‘ Delighted, monsieur,’ I replied, ‘ but I am not in 
the way of making my will, — for reasons, alas, too 
well-known to me.’ 

“ ‘ One moment! ’ he resumed, raising his hand as if 
to impose silence; ‘ Permit me, monsieur, permit me^! 
I have learned that you sometimes enter the garden of 
La Grande Breteche and walk there — ’ 


La Grande Breteche. 


227 


“ ‘ Yes, monsieur.’ 

“‘One moment!’ he said, repeating his gesture. 
‘ That action constitutes a misdemeanor. Monsieur, I 
come in the name and as testamentary executor of tlie 
late Comtesse de Merret to beg you to discontinue your 
visits. One moment! I am not a Turk ; I do not wish 
to impute a crime to you. Besides, it is quite excusable 
that you, a stranger, should be ignorant of the circum¬ 
stances which compel me to let the handsomest house 
in Vendome go to ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, as 
you seem to be a person of education, 3’ou no doubt 
know that the law forbids trespassers on enclosed 
property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But the 
state in which that house is left maj’ well excuse your 
curiosit3\ I should be only too glad to leave you free 
to go and come as 3*011 liked there, but charged as I am 
to execute the wishes of the testatrix, I have the honor, 
monsieur, to request that 3*ou do not again enter that 
garden. I m3*self, monsieur, have not, since the read¬ 
ing of the will, set foot in that house, which, as I have 
already had the honor to tell you, I hold under the will 
of Madame de Merret. We have only taken account 
of the number of the doors and windows so as to assess 
the taxes which I pay annually from the funds left by 
the late countess for that purpose. Ah, monsieur, that 
will made a great deal of noise in Vendome I ’ 

“There the worthy man paused to blow his nose. 


228 


La Grande Breteche, 


I respected his loquacity, understanding perfectly that 
the testamentary bequest of Madame de Merret had 
been the most important event of his life, the head and 
front of his reputation, his glory, his Eestoration. So 
then, I must bid adieu to my beautiful reveries, my 
romances! I was not so rebellious as to deprive my¬ 
self of getting the truth, as it were officially, out of the 
man of law, so I said, — 

“ ‘Monsieur, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask the 
reason of this singularity?’ 

‘ ‘ At these words a look which expressed the pleas¬ 
ure of a man who rides a hobby passed over Monsieur 
Kegnault’s face. He pulled up his shirt-collar with a 
certain conceit, took out his snuff-box, opened it, 
offered it to me, and on my refusal, took a strong 
pinch himself. He was happy. A man who has n’t 
a hobb}' doesn’t know how much can be got out of 
life. A hobby is the exact medium between a passion 
and a monomania. At that moment I understood 
Sterne’s fine expression to its fullest extent, and I 
formed a complete idea of the joy with which m3" Uncle 
Tob3" — Trim assisting — bestrode his war-horse. 

“‘Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Regnault, ‘I was for¬ 
merly head-clerk to Maitre Roguin in Paris. An ex¬ 
cellent lawyer’s office of which 3’ou have doubtless 
heard? No ! And 3^et a most unfortunate failure made 
it, I may say, celebrated. Not having the means to 


La Grande Bret^cTie» 


229 


buy a practice in Paris at the price to which they rose 
in 1816 , I came here to Vendome, where I have re¬ 
lations,— among them a rich aunt, who gave me her 
daughter in marriage/ 

“ Here he made a slight pause, and then resumed : — 

“ ‘Three months after my appointment was ratified 
by Monseigneur the Keeper of the Seals, I was sent for 
one evening just as I was going to bed (I was not then 
married) by Madame la Comtesse de Merret, then 
living in her chateau at Merret. Her lady’s-maid, an 
excellent girl who is now serving in this inn, was at 
the door with the countess’s carriage. Ah! one mo¬ 
ment! I ought to tell 3^ou, monsieur, that Monsieur 
le Comte de Merret had gone to die in Paris about 
two months before I came here. He died a miserable 
death from excesses of all kinds, to which he gave him¬ 
self up. Yon understand? Well, the day of his de¬ 
parture Madame la Comtesse left La Grande Breteche, 
and dismantled it. The}" do say that she even burned 
the furniture, and the carpets, and all appurtenances 
whatsoever and wheresoever contained on the premises 
leased to the said— Ah! beg pardon; what am I say¬ 
ing? I thought I was dictating a lease. Well, monsieur, 
she burned everything, they say, in the meadow at 
Merret. Were you ever at Merret, monsieur?’ 

“ Not waiting for me to speak, he answered for me : 
‘No. Ah! it is a fine spot? For three months, or 


230 La Qrande Breteche, 

thereabouts,* he continued, nodding his head, ‘ Mon¬ 
sieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse had been 
living at La Grande Breteche in a very singular way. 
They admitted no one to the house; madame lived on 
the ground-floor, and monsieur on the first floor. After 
Madame la Comtesse was left alone she never went to 
church. Later, in her own chateau she refused to see 
the friends who came to visit her. She changed greatly 
after she left La Grande Breteche and came to Merret 
That dear woman (I say dear, though I never saw her 
but once, because she gave me this diamond), — 
that good lady was very ill; no doubt she had given 
up all hope of recovery, for she died without calling 
in a doctor; in fact, some of our ladies thought she 
was not quite right in her mind. Consequently, mon¬ 
sieur, my curiosity was greatly" excited when I learned 
that Madame de Merret needed my services; and I 
was not the only one deeply interested; that very 
night, though it was late, the whole town knew I had 
gone to Merret.* 

“The good man paused a moment to arrange his 
facts, and then continued ; ‘ The lady’s maid answered 
rather vaguely the questions wdiich I put to her as we 
drove along; she did, however, tell me that her mis¬ 
tress had received the last sacraments that day from 
the curate of Merret, and that she was not likely to 
live through the night. I reached the chateau about 


La Grande BretecJie, 


231 


eleven o’clock. I went up the grand staircase. After 
passing through a number of dark and lo% rooms, 
horribly cold and damp, I entered the state bedroom 
where Madame la Comtesse was lying. In conse¬ 
quence of the many stories that were told about this 
lady (reall}’, monsieur, I should never end if I related 
all of them) I expected to find her a fascinating co¬ 
quette. Would you believe it, I could scarcely see her 
at all in the huge bed in which she la3\ It is true that 
the only light in that vast room, with friezes of the old 
style powdered with dust enough to make 3’ou sneeze on 
merely" looking at them, was one Argand lamp. Ah! 
but 3’ou say you have never been at Merret. Well, 
monsieur, the bed was one of those old-time beds with 
a high tester covered with fiowered chintz. A little 
night-table stood b}’ the bed, and on it I noticed a copy 
of the “ Imitation of Christ.” 

“‘Allow me a parenthesis,’ he said, interrupting 
himself. ‘ I bought that book subsequently', also the 
lamp, and presented them to my wife. In the room 
was a large sofa for the woman who was taking care of 
Madame de Merret, and two chairs. That was all. No 
fire. The whole would not have made ten lines of an 
inventory'. All! my' dear monsieur, could you have 
seen her as I saw her then, in that vast room hung with 
brown tapestry, you would have imagined y’ou were in 
the pages of a novel. It was glacial, — better than that, 


232 


La G-rande BretecTie» 


funereal,’ added the worth}^ man, raising his arm the¬ 
atrically and making a pause. Presentl}^ he resumed : 

“ ‘ B}' dint of peering round and coming close to the 
bed I at length saw Madame de Merret, thanks to the 
lamp which happened to shine on tlie pillows. Her face 
was as yellow as wax, and looked like two hands joined 
together. Madame la Comtesse wore a lace cap, which, 
however, allowed me to see her fine hair, white as snow. 
She was sitting up in the bed, but apparently did so 
with difRcult3\ Her large black eyes, sunken no doubt 
with fever, and almost lifeless, hardlj^ moved beneath the 
bones where the ej’ebrows usuallj" grow. Her forehead 
was damp. Her fleshless hands were like bones cov¬ 
ered with thin skin ; the veins and muscles could all be 
seen. She must once have been very handsome, but now 
I was seized with—I couldn’t tell you what feeling, as 
I looked at her. Those wdio buried her said afterwards 
that no living creature had ever been as wasted as she 
without dying. Well, it was awful to see. Some mor¬ 
tal disease had eaten up that w'oman till there was 
nothing left of her but a phantom. Her lips, of a pale 
violet, seemed not to move when she spoke. Though 
my profession had familiarized me with such scenes, 
in brbging me often to the bedside of the dying, to 
receive their last wishes, I must say that the tears and 
the anguish of families and friends wdiich I have wit¬ 
nessed were as nothing compared to this solitary 


La Grande BretecJie, 


233 


woman in that vast building. 1 did not hear the slight¬ 
est noise, I did not see the movement which the breath¬ 
ing of the d3dng woman would naturall}' give to the 
sheet that covered her; I m^’self remained motionless, 
looking at her in a sort of stupor. Indeed, I fancj" I 
am there still. At last her large eyes moved; she 
tried to lift her right hand, which fell back upon the 
bed; then these words issued from her lips like a 
brcath, for her voice was no longer a voice, — 

“ ‘ “ I have awaited j’ou with impatience.” 

“ ‘ Her cheeks colored. The effort to speak was 
great. The old woman who was watching her here 
rose and whispered in m3" ear: “ DonT speak ; Madame 
la Comtesse is past hearing the slightest sound; 3"ou 
would onl3" agitate her.” 1 sat clown. A few moments 
later Madame de Merret collected all her remaining 
strength to move her right arm and put it, not without 
great difflcult3", under her bolster. She paused an in¬ 
stant; then she made a last effort and withdrew her 
hand which now held a sealed paper. Great drops of 
sweat rolled from her forehead. 

“ ‘ “ I give you my will,” she said. “ Oh, my 
God ! Oh ! ” 

“ ‘That was all. She seized a crucifix which lay on 
her bed, pressed it to her lips and died. The expression 
of her fixed e3’'es still makes me shudder when I think 
of it. I brought awa3" the will. When it was opened 


234 


La Grande Breteche. 


I found that Madame de Merret had appointed me her 
executor. She bequeathed her whole property to the 
hospital of Vendome, save and excepting certain be¬ 
quests. The following disposition was made of La 
Grande Breteche. I was directed to leave it in the 
state in which it was at the time of her death for a 
period of fifty 3^ears from the date of her decease; I 
was to forbid all access to it, hy anj^ and every one, no 
matter who; to make no repairs, and to put bj’ from 
her estate a j^eaii}" sum to paj^ watchers, if the^’ were 
necessaiy, to insure the faithful execution of these 
intentions. At the expiration of that time the estate 
was, if the testatrix’s will had been carried out in all 
particulars, to belong to my heirs (because, as mon¬ 
sieur is doubtless well aware, notaries are forbidden bjr 
law to receive legacies) ; if otherwise, then La Grande 
Breteche was to go to whoever might establish a right 
to it, but on condition of fulfilling certain orders con¬ 
tained in a codicil annexed to the will and not to be 
opened until the expiration of the fift}" j^ears. The will 
has never been attacked, consequently — ’ 

“Here the oblong notary, without finishing his sen¬ 
tence, looked at me triumphantlj". I made him perfectljr 
happy with a few compliments. 

“‘Monsieur,’ I said, in conclusion, ‘^^ou have so 
deeply impressed that scene upon me that I seem to 
see the dying woman, whiter than the sheets; those 


La Qrande Breteehe, 


235 


glittering eyes horrify me; I shall dream of her all 
night. But you must have formed some conjectures as 
to the motive of that extraordinary^ will.’ 

“ ‘ Monsieur/ he replied, with comical reserve, ‘ I 
never permit myself to judge of the motives of those 
who honor me with the gift of a diamond.’ 

“ However, I managed to unloose the tongue of the 
scrupulous notary so far that he told me, not without 
long digressions, certain opinions on the matter emanat¬ 
ing from the wise-heads of both sexes whose judgments 
made the social law of Vendome. But these opinions 
and observations were so contradictory’, so diffuse, 
that I well-nigh went to sleep in spite of the interest I 
felt in this authentic story. The heavy’ manner and 
monotonous accent of the notary’, who was no doubt in 
the habit of listening to himself and making his clients 
and compatriots listen to him, triumphed over my curi¬ 
osity’. Happily’, he did at last go away. 

“ ‘Ha, ha! monsieur,’ he said to me at the head of 
the stairs, ‘ many persons would like to live their forty- 
live y’ears longer, but, one moment! ’ — here he laid the 
forefinger of his right hand on his nose as if he meant 
to say, Now pay attention to this! — ‘in order to do 
that, to do that^ they’ ought to skip the sixties.’ 

“ I shut my door, the notary’s jest, which he thought 
very’ w’itty, having drawn me from my apathy; then I 
sat down in my’ armchair and put both feet on the 


236 


La (xrande Breteche, 


andirons. I was plunged in a romance a la Radcliife, 
based on the notarial disclosures of Monsieur Regnault, 
when my door, softly opened by the hand of a woman, 
turned noiselessly on its hinges. 

“ I saw my landlady, a jovial, stout woman, with a 
fine, good-humored face, who had missed her true sur¬ 
roundings ; she was from Flanders, and might have 
stepped out of a picture by Teniers. 

“ ‘ Well, monsieur,’ she said, ‘ Monsieur Regnault 
has no doubt recited to you his famous tale of La 
Grande Breteche?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Madame Lepas.’ 

‘ What did he tell you?’ 

“ I repeated in a few words the dark and chilling 
story of Madame de Merret as imparted to me by the 
notaiy. At each sentence my landlady ran out her 
chin and looked at me with the perspicacity of an inn¬ 
keeper, which combines the instinct of a pcliceman, tlie 
astuteness of a sp3% and the cunning of a shopkeeper. 

“ ‘ My dear Madame Lepas,’ I added, in conclusion, 
‘ you evidently know more than that. If not, why did 
3’ou come up here to me ? ’ 

“ ‘ On the word, now, of an honest woman, just as 
true as my name is Lepas — ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t swear, for your eyes are full of the secret. 
You knew Monsieur de Merret. What sort of man 
was he?’ 


La Grande Breteche. 


237 


“ ‘ Goodness ! Monsieur de Merret? well, you see, he 
was a handsome man, so tall you never could see the 
top of him, — a very worthy gentleman from Picardy, 
who had, as 3"ou ma}' sa}^, a temper of his own; and 
he knew it. He paid ever}^ one in cash so as to have 
no quarrels. But, I tell 3’ou, he could be quick. Our 
ladies thought him very pleasant.’ 

“ ‘ Because of his temper? ’ I asked. 

“‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘You know, monsieur, a 
man must have something to the fore, as the}- say, to 
marry a lady like Madame de Merret, who, without 
disparaging others, was the handsomest and the rich¬ 
est woman in Vendome. She had an income of nearly 
twenty thousand francs. All the town was at the "wed¬ 
ding. The bride was so dainty and captivating, a real 
little jewel of a woman. Ah! they were a fine couple 
in those day^ ! ’ 

“ ‘ Was their home a happy one? ’ 

“‘Hum, hum! yes and no, so far as any one can 
say; for you know well enough that the like of us 
don’t live hand and glove with the like of them. Ma¬ 
dame de Merret was a good woman and very charming, 
who no doubt had to bear a good deal from her hus¬ 
band’s temper; we all liked her though she was rather 
haughty. Bah ! that was her bringing up, and she was 
born so. When people are noble — don’t you see?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, but there must have been some terrible 


238 


La Grande Breteche. 


catastrophe, for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to 
separate violent!}'/ 

“‘I never said there was a catastrophe, monsieur; 
I know nothing about it.’ 

“ ‘ Very good ; now I am certain that you know all.’ 

“‘Well, monsieur, I’ll tell you all I do know. 
When I saw Monsieur Regnault coming after you I 
knew he would tell you about Madame de Merret and 
La Grande Breteche; and that gave me the idea of 
consulting monsieur, who seems to be a gentleman of 
good sense, incapable of betraying a poor woman like 
me, who has never done harm to any one, but who is, 
somehow, troubled in her conscience. I have never 
dared to say a word to the people about here, for 
they are all gossips, with tongues like steel blades. 
And there’s never been a traveller who has stayed 
as long as you have, monsieur, to whom I could tell 
all about the fifteen thousand francs — ’ 

“ ‘ My dear Madame Lepas,’ I replied, trying to stop 
the flow of words, ‘ if your confidence is of a nature to 
compromise me, I would n’t hear it for worlds.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, don’t be afraid,’ she said, interrupting me. 
‘ You ’ll see —’ 

“ This haste to tell made me quite certain I was not 
the first to whom my good landlady had communicated 
the secret of which I was to be the sole repositary, so I 
listened. 


La Qrande Bretiche, 


239 


“ ‘ Monsieur,’ she said, ‘ when the Emperor sent the 
Spanish and other prisoners of war to Vendome I lodged 
one of them (at the cost of the government), —a 3^oung 
Spaniard on parole. But in spite of his parole he had 
to report every day to the sub-prefect. He was a gran¬ 
dee of Spain, with a name that ended in os and in cUa^ 
like all Spaniards — Bagos de Feredia. I wrote his 
name on the register, and 3'ou can see it if you like. 
Oh, he was a handsome 3’oung fellow for a Spaniard, 
who, they tell me, are all ugl3\ He was n’t more than 
five feet two or three inches, but he was well made. 
He had prett}^ little hands which he took care of— ah, 
you should just have seen him! He had as man}’ 
brushes for those hands as a woman has for her head. 
He had fine black hair, a fiery eye, a rather copper- 
colored skin, but it was pleasant to look at all the same. 
He wore the finest linen I ever saw on an}’ one, and I 
have lodged princesses, and, among others. General 
Bertrand, the Due and Duchesse d’Abrantes, Monsieur 
Decazes and the King of Spain. He didn’t eat much ; 
but he had such polite manners and was always so ami¬ 
able that I could n’t find fault with him. Oh! I did 
really love him, though he never said four words a day 
to me ; if any one spoke to him, he never answered, — 
that’s an oddity those grandees have, a sort of mania, 
so I’m told. He read his breviary like a priest, and he 
went to mass and to all the services regularly. Where 


240 . 


La Grande Breteclie, 


do 3’ou think he sat? close to the chapel of Madame de 
Merret. But as he took that place the first time he went 
to church nobod}^ attached any importance to the fact, 
though it was remembered later. Besides, he never 
took his eyes off his prayer-book, poor young man ! ’ 

“My jovial landlady paused a moment, overcome 
with her recollections; then she continued her tale: 

“ ‘ From that time on, monsieur, he used to walk up 
the mountain every evening to the ruins of the castle. 
It was his onl}" amusement, poor man ! and I dare say 
it recalled his own countr}"; they sa}" Spain is all 
mountains. From the first he was alwaj^s late at night 
in coming in. I used to be uneasy at never seeing him 
before the stroke of midnight; but we got accustomed 
to his waj's and gave him a ke}' to the door, so that we 
did n’t have to sit up. It so happened that one of our 
grooms told us that one evening when he went to bathe 
his horses he thought he saw the grandee in, the dis¬ 
tance, swimming in the river like a fish. When he 
came in I told him he had better take care not to get 
entangled in the sedges ; he seemed annoyed that any 
one had seen him in the water. Well, monsieur, one 
day, or rather, one morning, we did not find him in his 
room; he had not come in. He never returned. I 
looked about and into everything, and at last I found 
a writing in a table drawer where he had put away fifty 
of those Spanish gold coins called “ portugaise,” which 


La Grrande BreteeJie, 


241 


bring a liuiidred francs apiece; there were also dia¬ 
monds worth ten thousand francs sealed up in a little 
box. The paper said that in case he should not return 
some da^^, he bequeathed to us the money and the 
diamonds, with a request to found masses of thanks¬ 
giving to God for his escape and safety. In those days 
my husband was living, and he did everything he could 
to find the young man. But, it was the queerest thing ! 
he found only the Spaniard’s clothes under a big stone 
in a sort of shed on the banks of the river, on the castle 
side, just opposite to La Grande Breteche. My hus¬ 
band went so early in the morning that no one saw him. 
lie burned the clothes after we had read the letter, and 
gave out, as Comte Feredia requested, that he had fled. 
The sub-prefect sent the whole gendarmerie on his 
traces, but bless your heart! they never caught him. 
Lepas thought the Spaniard had drowned himself. But, 
monsieur, I never thought so. I think he was somehow 
mixed up in Madame de Merret’s trouble ; and I 11 tell 
you why. Rosalie has told me that her mistress had a 
crucifix she valued so much that she was buried with it, 
and it was made of ebony and silver; now when Mon¬ 
sieur de Feredia first came to lodge with us he had just 
such a crucifix, but I soon missed it. Now, monsieur, 
what do you say ? is n’t it true that I need have no 
remorse about those fifteen thousand francs? are not 
they rightfully mine?’ 


16 


242 


La Grande BretecJie. 


“ ‘ Of course they are. But how is it you have never 
questioned Rosalie ? ’ I said. 

“ ‘ Oh, I have, monsieur; but I can get nothing out 
of her. That girl is a stone wall. She knows some¬ 
thing, but there is no making her talk.’ 

“ After a few more remarks, my landlady left me, a 
prey to a romantic curiosit}’, to vague and darkling 
thoughts, to a religious terror that was something like 
the awe which comes upon us when we enter by night 
a gloomy church and see in the distance beneath the 
arches a feeble light; a formless figure glides before 
us, the sweep of a robe — of priest or woman — is 
heard ; we shudder. La Grande Breteche, with its tall 
grasses, its shuttered windows, its rusty railings, its 
barred gates, its deserted rooms, rose fantastically 
and suddenly before me. I tried to penetrate that 
mysterious dwelling and seek the knot of this most 
solemn history, this drama which had killed three 
persons. 

“ Rosalie became to my eyes the most interesting 
person in Vendome. Examining her, I discovered the 
traces of an ever-present inward thought. In spite of 
the health which bloomed upon her dimpled face, there 
was in her some element of remorse, or of hope; her 
attitude bespoke a secret, like that of devotees who 
pray with ardor, or that of a girl who has killed her 
child and forever after hears its Qxy, And yet her pos- 


La Grande BreticJie. 


243 


tures were naive, and even vulgar; her silly smile was 
surely not criminal; you would have judged her inno¬ 
cent if only by the large neckerchief of blue and red 
squares which covered her vigorous bust, clothed, con¬ 
fined, and set oflT b}'^ a gown of purple and white stripes. 
‘ No,* thought I; ‘I will not leave Vendome without 
knowing the history of La Grande Breteche. I ’ll even 
make love to Rosalie, if it is absolutely necessary,* 

‘ Rosalie ! * I said to her one day. 

‘ What is it, monsieur?* 

“ ‘ You are not married, are you?* 

She trembled slightly. 

“‘Oh! when the fancy takes me to be unhappy 
there’ll be no lack of men,* she said, laughing. 

“ She recovered instantly from her emotion, what¬ 
ever it was ; for all women, from the great lady to the 
chambermaid of an inn, have a self-possession of their 
own. 

“ ‘ You are fresh enough and taking enough to please 
a lover,* I said, watching her. ‘ But tell me, Rosalie, 
why did you take a place at an inn after 3*ou left Ma¬ 
dame de Merret? Did n’t she leave 3^ou an annuity? * 

“ ‘ Oh, yes, she did. But, monsieur, my place is the 
best in all Vendome.* 

“This answer was evidently what judges and lawj^ers 
call ‘ dilatory.* Rosalie’s position in this romantic his¬ 
tory was like that of a square on a checkerboard; she 


244 


La G-rande Breteche, 


was at the very centre, as it were, of its truth and its 
interest; she seemed to me to be tied into the knot of 
it. The last chapter of the tale was in her, and, from 
the moment that I realized this, Rosalie became to me 
an object of attraction. By dint of studying the girl 
I came to find in her, as we do in every woman whom 
W'e make a principal object of our attention, that she 
had a host of good qualities. She was clean, and 
careful of herself, and therefore handsome. Some two 
or three weeks after the notary’s visit I said to her, 
suddenly: ‘Tell me all you know about Madame de 
Merret.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, no ! ’ she replied, in a tone of terror, ‘ don’t 
ask me that, monsieur.’ 

“ I persisted in urging her. Her prett}" face dark¬ 
ened, her bright color faded, her eyes lost their inno¬ 
cent, liquid light. 

“ ‘ Well! ’ she said, after a pause, ‘if you will have 
it so, I will tell you ; but keep the secret.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll keep it with the faithfulness of a thief, which 
is the most lo^’al to be found anywhere.’ 

“ ‘ If it is the same to you, monsieur, I’d rather you 
kept it with your own.’ 

“ Thereupon, she adjusted her neckerchief and posed 
herself to tell the tale; for it is very certain that an 
attitude of confidence and securit}" is desirable in order 
to make a narration. The best tales are told at special 



La Grande BretecJie, 245 

hours, — like that in which we are now at table. No 
one ever told a storj’’ well, standing or fasting. 

“ If I were to reproduce faithfully poor Rosalie’s 
diffuse eloquence, a whole volume would scarce suffice. 
But as the event of which she now gave me a hazy 
knowledge falls into place between the facts revealed 
by the garrulity of the notary, and that of Madame 
Lepas, as precisel}' as the mean terms of an arithmeti¬ 
cal proposition lie between its two extremes, all I have 
to do is to tell it to you in few words. I therefore 
give a summary of what I heard from Rosalie. 

“The chamber which Madame de Merret occupied 
at La Grande Breteche was on the ground-floor. A 
small closet about four feet in depth was made in the 
wall, and served as a wardrobe. Three months before 
the evening when the facts I am about to relate to you 
happened, Madame de Merret had been so seriously 
unwell that her husband left her alone in her room and 
slept himself in a chamber on the first floor. By one of 
those mere chances which it is impossible to foresee, he 
returned, on the evening in question, two hours later 
than usual from the club where he went habitually to 
read the papers and talk politics with the inhabitants of 
the town. His wife thought him at home and in bed 
and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the 
subject of a lively discussion ; the game of billiards was 
a heated one ; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sum 


246 


La Grande Breteche, 


for Vendome, where everybody hoards his money, and 
where manners and customs are restrained within modest 
limits worthy of all praise, — which may, perhaps, be 
the source of a certain true happiness which no Parisian 
cares anything at all about. 

“ For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been in 
the habit of asking Rosalie, when he came in, if his 
wife were in bed. Being told, invariably, that she was, 
he at once went to his own room with the contentment 
that comes of confidence and custom. This evening, 
on returning home, he took it into his head to go to 
Madame de Merret’s room and tell her his ill-luck, 
perhaps to be consoled for it. During dinner he had 
noticed that his wife was coquettishly dressed; and as 
he came from the club the thought crossed his mind 
that she was no longer ill, that her convalescence had 
made her lovelier than ever, — a fact he perceived, as 
husbands are wont to perceive things, too late. 

“ Instead of calling Rosalie, who at that moment was 
in the kitchen watching a complicated game of ^ brisque,’ 
at which the cook and the coachman were playing. 
Monsieur de Merret went straight to his wife’s room by 
the light of his lantern, which he had placed on the 
first step of the stairway. His step, which was easily 
recognized, resounded under the arches of the corridor. 
Jlist as he turned the handle of his wife’s door he fan¬ 
cied he heard the door of the closet, which I mentioned 


La Grande Breteche, 


247 


to you, shut; but when he entered, Madame de Merret 
was alone, standing before the fireplace. The husband 
thought to himself that Rosalie must be in the closet; 
and yet a suspicion, which sounded in his ears like 
the ringing of bells, made him distrustful. He looked 
at his wife, and fancied he saw something wild and 
troubled in her eyes. 

“‘You are late in coming home/ she said. That 
voice, usually so pure and gracious, seemed to him 
slightly changed. 

“Monsieur de Merret made no answer, for at that 
moment Rosalie entered the room. Her appearance 
was a thunderbolt to him. He walked up and down 
the room with his arms crossed, going from one win¬ 
dow to another with a uniform movement. 

“ ‘ Have 3^ou heard an3'thing to trouble you?’ asked 
his wife, timidlj^ while Rosalie was undressing her. 
He made no answer. 

“ ‘ You can leave the room,’ said Madame de Merret 
to the maid. ‘ I will arrange my hair myself.’ 

“ She guessed some misfortune at the mere sight of 
her husband’s face, and wished to be alone with 
him. 

“ When Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, 
for she went no further than the corridor. Monsieur de 
Merret came to his wife and stood before her. Then 
he said, coldly; 


248 


La G-rande Bret^ohe, 


“ ‘ Madame, there is some one in j’our closet/ 

“ She looked at her husband with a calm air, and 
answered, ‘ No, monsieur/ 

“ That ‘ no ’ agonized Monsieur de Merret, for he 
did not believe it. And 3'et his wife had never seemed 
purer nor more saintly than she did at that moment. 
He rose and went towards the closet to open the door; 
Madame de Merret took him b^" the hand and stopped 
him; she looked at him with a sad air and said, in 
a voice that was strangely shaken: ‘ If 3"ou find no 
one, remember that all is over between us/ 

“ The infinite dignity of his wife’s demeanor restored 
her husband’s respect for her, and suddenl}’’ inspired 
him with one of those resolutions which need some 
wider field to become immortal. 

“‘No, Josephine,’ he said, ‘I will not look there. 
In either case we should be separated forever. Listen 
to me : I know the purity of j'our soul, I know that 3'ou 
lead a saintly life; 3’ou would not commit a mortal sin 
to save 3"Ourself from death.’ 

“At these words, Madame de Merret looked at her 
husband with a haggard eye. 

“ ‘ Here is 3"our crucifix,’ he went on. ‘ Swear to me 
before God that there is no one in that closet and I will 
believe 3^11; I will not open that door.’ 

“Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said ‘I 
swear it.’ 


La Qrande Breteche, 


249 


“ ‘ Louder! ’ said her husband ; ^repeat after me, — I 
swear before God that there is no person in that 
closet/ 

“ She repeated the words composedly. 

“‘That is well," said Monsieur de Merret, coldly. 
After a moment’s silence he added, examining the 
ebony crucifix inlaid with silver, ‘That is a beautiful 
thing; I did not know you possessed it; it is very 
artistically wrought.’ 

“ ‘ I found it at Duvivier’s,’ she replied ; ‘ he bought 
it of a Spanish monk when those prisoners-of-war 
passed through Vendome last year.’ 

“ ‘ Ah! ’ said Monsieur de Merret, replacing the 
crucifix on the wall. He rang the bell. Rosalie was 
not long in answering it. Monsieur de Merret went 
quickly up to her, took her into the recess of a window 
on the garden side, and said to her in a low voice : — 

“ ‘ I am told that Gorenflot wants to marry 3^ou, and 
that poverty alone prevents it, for }'Ou have told him 
you will not be his wife until he is a master-mason. Is 
that so? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, monsieur.’ 

“ ‘ Well, go and find him; tell him to come here at 
once and bring his trowel and other tools. Take care 
not to wake anj^ one at his house but himself; he will 
soon have enough money to satisf}^ you. No talking to 
an}' one when 3'ou leave this room, mind, or— ’ 


250 


La Grande Breteche. 


“ He frowned. Rosalie left the room. He called her 
back; ‘ Here, take my pass-kej-he said. 

“ Monsieur de Merret, who had kept his wife in view 
while giving these orders, now sat down beside her 
before the fire and began to tell her of his game of 
billiards, and the political discussions at the club. 
When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Ma¬ 
dame de Merret talking amicablj". 

“ The master had lately had the ceilings of all the 
reception rooms on the lower fioor restored. Plaster 
is very scarce at Vendome, and the carriage of it 
makes it expensive. Monsieur de Merret had there¬ 
fore ordered an ample quantity for his own wants, 
knowing that he could readily finds buyers for what 
was left. This circumstance inspired the idea that 
now possessed him. 

“ ‘ Monsieur, Gorenfiot has come,* said Rosalie. 

“ ‘ Bring him in,* said her master. 

“Madame de Merret turned slightly pale when she 
saw the mason. 

“‘Gorenfiot,* said her husband, ‘fetch some bricks 
from the coach-house, — enough to wall up that door; 
use the plaster that was left over, to cover the wall.* 

“ Then he called Rosalie and the mason to the end 
of the room, and, speaking in a low voice, added, 
‘ Listen to me, Gorenfiot; after you have done this work 
you will sleep in the house; and to-morrow morning 


La Crrande BretecJie, 


251 


I will give you a passport into a foreign country, and 
six thousand francs for the journey. Go through Paris 
where I will meet you. There, I will secure to you 
legally another six thousand francs, to he paid to you at 
tlie end of ten years if you still remain out of France. 
For this sum, I demand absolute silence on what 3’ou 
see and do this night. As for 3"ou, Rosalie, I give you 
a dowry of ten thousand francs, on condition that 
you marry Gorenflot, and keep silence, if not — ’ 

“‘Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, ‘come and 
brush my hair/ 

“ The husband walked up and down the room, watch¬ 
ing the door, the mason, and his wife, but without 
allowing the least distrust or misgiving to appear in 
his manner. Gorenflot’s work made some noise; un¬ 
der cover of it Madame de Merret said hastily to 
Rosalie, while her husband was at the farther end of 
the room. ‘ A thousand francs annuity if 3'ou tell 
Gorenflot to leave a crevice at the bottom ;' then aloud 
she added, composedly, ‘ Go and help the mason.' 

“Monsieur and Madame de Merret remained silent 
during the whole time it took Gorenflot to wall up the 
door. The silence was intentional on the part of the 
husband to deprive his wife of all chance of saying 
words with a double meaning which might be heard 
within the closet; with Madame de Merret it was 
either prudence or pride. 


252 


La Grande Bret^che, 


“ When the wall was more than half up, the mason’s 
tool broke one of the panes of glass in the closet door; 
Monsieur de Merret’s back was at that moment turned 
away. The action proved to Madame de Merret that 
Rosalie had spoken to the mason. In that one instant 
she saw the dark face of a man with black hair and 
fiery e3'es. Before her husband turned the poor creat¬ 
ure had time to make a sign with her head which 
meant ‘ Hope.’ 

“ By four o’clock, just at dawn, for it was in the 
month of September, the work was done. Monsieur de 
Merret remained that night in his wife’s room. The 
next morning, on rising, he said, careless!}": ‘ Ah! 
I forgot, I must go to the mayor’s office about that 
passport.’ 

“He put on his hat, made three steps to the 
door, then checked himself, turned back, and took the 
crucifix. 

“ His wife trembled with joy ; ‘ He will go to Duvi- 
vier’s,’ she thought. 

“ The moment her husband had left the house she 
rang for Rosalie. ^ The pick-axe! ’ she cried, ‘ the 
pick-axe! I watched how Gorenflot did it; we shall 
have time to make a hole and close it again.’ 

“In an instant Rosalie had brought a sort of cleaver, 
and her mistress, with a fur}" no words can describe, 
began to demolish the wall. She had knocked away 


La Crrande Breteche, 


253 


a few bricks, and was drawing back to strike a still 
more vigorous blow with all her strength, when she 
saw her husband behind her. She fainted. 

“‘Put madame on her bed,’ said her husband, coldly. 

“Foreseeing what would happen, he had laid this 
trap for his wife; he had written to the maj’or, and 
sent for Duvivier. The jeweller arrived just as the 
room had been again put in order. 

“ ‘ Duvivier,’ said Monsieur de Merret, ‘ I think 3’ou 
bought some crucifixes of those Spaniards who were 
here last 3'ear?’ 

“ ‘ No, monsieur, I did not.’ 

“‘Ver3’ good; thank 3’ou,’ he said, with a tigerish 
glance at his wife. ‘ Jean,’ he added to the footman, 

‘ serve m3" meals in Madame de Merret’s bedroom ; she 
is ver3’ ill, and I shall not leave her till she recovers.’ 

“For twent3’ da3’s that man remained beside his 
wife. During the first hours, when sounds were heard 
behind the walled door, and Josephine tried to implore 
mercy for the dying stranger, he answered, without 
allowing her to utter a word: — 

“ ‘ You swore upon the cross that no one was there.’ ” 

As the tale ended the women rose from table, and 
the spell under which Bianchon had held them was 
broken. Nevertheless, several of them were conscious 
of a cold chill as they recalled the last words. 






THE PURSE. 


To SOFKA: 

Have you ever remarked, Mademoiselle, that when the 
painters and sculptors of the middle ages placed two figures 
in adoration beside some glorious saint they have always 
given them a filial resemblance ? 

When you see your name among those dear to me, under 
whose protection I place my books, remember this likeness 
and you will find here not so much a homage as an expression 
of the fraternal affection felt for you by 

Your servant, De Balzac. 

For souls easily moved to jo3'Ous feelings there comes 
a delightful moment when night is not yet and day is 
no more ; the twilight casts its soft tones or its fantastic 
reflections over everj'thing, and invites to a revery 
which blends vaguely with the play of light and shadow. 
The silence that nearly alwa^^s reigns at such a moment 
renders it particularly dear to artists, who then gather 
up their thoughts, stand back a little from their crea¬ 
tions, at which they can see to work no longer, and 



256 


The Purse, 


judge them in the intoxication of a subject the esoteric 
meaning of which then blazes forth to the inner ej'es of 
genius. He who has never stood pensive beside a friend 
at that dream}", poetic moment will have difficulty in 
comprehending its unspeakable benefits. Thanks to 
the half-light, the chiaroscuro^ all the material de¬ 
ceptions employed by art to simulate truth disappear. 
If a picture is the thing concerned, the persons it repre¬ 
sents seem to speak and move; the shadow is reall}^ 
shadow, the light is day, the flesh is living, the eyes 
turn, the blood flows in the veins, and the silks shimmer. 
At that hour illusion reigns unchallenged; perhaps it 
only rises at night-fall! Indeed, illusion is to thought 
a sort of night which we decorate with dreams. Then 
it is that she spreads her wings and bears the soul to 
the world of fantasy, — a world teeming with voluptuous 
caprices, where the artist forgets the actual world, for¬ 
gets yesterda}^, to-day, to-morrow, all, even his dis¬ 
tresses, the happy as well as the bitter ones. 

At that magic hour a young painter, a man of talent, 
who saw nought in art but art itself, was perched on a 
double ladder which he used for the purpose of painting 
a very large picture, now nearl}" finished. There, criti¬ 
cising himself and admiring himself in perfect good 
faith, he was lost in one of those meditations which rav¬ 
ish the soul, enlarge it, caress it, and console it. His 
revery no doubt lasted long. Night came. Whether he 


The Purse. 


257 


tried to come down his ladder, or whether, thinking he 
was on the ground, he made some imprudent moA^ement, 
he was unable to remember, but at any rate he fell, his 
head struck a stool, he lost consciousness and lay for a 
time, but how long he did not know, without moving. 

A soft voice drew him from the sort of stupor in which 
he was plunged. When he opened his eyes a bright 
light made him close them again ; but through the veil 
that wrapped his senses he heard the murmur of 
women’s voices, and felt two young and timid hands 
about his head. He soon recovered consciousness and 
perceived, by the light of one of those old-fashioned 
lamps called “ double air-currents,” the head of the 
loveliest young girl he had ever seen, — one of those 
heads which are often thought artistic fancies, but which 
for him suddenly realized the noble ideal which each 
artist creates for himself, and from which his genius 
proceeds. The face of the unknown maiden belonged, 
if we ma}^ saA' so, to the school of Prudhon, and it also 
possessed the poetic charm which Girodet has giA^en to 
his imaginary visions. The delightful coolness of the 
temples, the evenness of the eyebrows, the purity of 
the outlines, the virginity strongly imprinted on that 
countenance, made the young girl a perfected being. 

Her clothes, though simple and neat, bespoke neither 
wealth nor povertj". When the painter regained pos¬ 
session of himself, he expressed his admiration in a 

17 





258 


The Purse, 


look of surprise as he stammered his thanks. He felt 
his forehead pressed b}’ a handkerchief, and he recog¬ 
nized, in spite of the peculiar odor of an atelier, the 
strong fumes of hartshorn, used, no doubt, to bring 
him to himself. Next he noticed an old ladj^, like a 
countess of the old regime, who held the lamp and was 
advising her companion. 

“ Monsieur,” replied the young girl to one of the 
painter’s questions asked during the moment when he 
was still half-unconscious, “ my mother and I heard the 
noise of your fall on the floor and we thought we also 
heard a groan. The silence which succeeded 3'our fall 
alarmed us and we hastened to come up to 3'ou. 
Finding the key in the door we fortunatelj^ ventured 
to come in. We found 3’ou l3dng on the floor uncon¬ 
scious. My mother obtained what was necessaiy to 
bring you to and to stanch the blood. You are hurt 
in the forehead; there, do 3'ou feel it?” 

“ Yes, now I do,” he said. 

“It is a mere nothing,” said the old mother, “for¬ 
tunately your fall was broken b3^ that lay-figure.” 

“I feel much better,” said the painter; “all I 
want is a carriage to take me home. The porter can 
fetch it.” 

He tried to reiterate his thanks to the two ladies, but 
at every sentence the mother interrupted him, saying: 
“To-morrow, monsieur, put on blisters or apply 


The Purse, 259 

leeches; drink a few cups of some restorative; take 
care of j’ourself, — falls are dangerous.” 

The young girl glanced shyly at the painter, and 
around the studio. Her look and demeanor were those 
of perfect propriety, and her eyes seemed to express, 
with a spontaneit}' that was full of grace, the interest 
that women take in whatever troubles men. These 
unknown ladies appeared to ignore the works of the 
painter in presence of the suffering man. When he 
had reassured them as to his condition they left the 
room, after examining him with a solicitude that was 
devoid of either exaggeration or familiaritj', and with¬ 
out asking any indiscreet questions, or seeking to in¬ 
spire him with a wish to know them. Their conduct 
was marked with eveiy sign of delicacy and good taste. 
At first their noble and simple manners produced but 
little effect upon the painter, but later, when he recalled 
the circumstances, he was greatly struck by them. 

Kcaching the floor below that on which the studio 
was situated, the old lady exclaimed, gently, ‘‘ Ade¬ 
laide, 3’ou left the door open! ” 

“It was to succor me,” replied the painter, with a 
smile of gratitude. 

“ Mamma, 3’ou came down just now,” said the young 
girl, blushing. 

“ Shall we light 3’ou down? ” said the mother to the 
painter; “ the stairwa3" is dark.” 


260 


The Purse. 


“ Oh, thank you, madame, but I feel much better.” 

“ Hold b}^ the baluster.” 

The two women stood on the landing to light the 
young man, listening to the sound of his steps. 

To explain all that made this scene piquant and un¬ 
expected to the painter, we must add that he had only 
latel}’ removed his studio to the attic of this house, 
which stood at the darkest and muddiest part of the 
rue de Suresnes, nearly opposite to the church of the 
Madeleine, a few steps from his apartments, which 
were in the rue des Champs El^^sees. The celebrity 
his talent had won for him made him dear to France, 
and he was just beginning to no longer feel the troubles 
of want, and to enjoy, as he said, his last miseries. 
Instead of going to his work in a studio beyond the 
barrier, the modest price of which had hitherto been in 
keeping with the modesty of his earnings, he now satis¬ 
fied a desire, of dail}" growth, to avoid the long walk 
and the loss of time which had now become a thing of 
the utmost value. 

No one in the world could have inspired deeper in¬ 
terest that Hippolyte Schinner, if he had onl3’ con¬ 
sented to be known ; but he was not one of those who 
readily confide the secrets of their heart. He was the 
idol of a poor mj)ther who had brought him up at a 
cost of stern privations. Mademoiselle Schinner, the 
daughter of an Alsatian farmer, was not married. 


The Purse, 


261 


Her tender soul had once been cruelly wounded by a 
wealthy man who boasted of little delicacy in love. 
The fatal day when, in the glow of youth and beaut}", 
in the glory of her life, she endured at the cost of all 
her beautiful illusions, and of her heart itself, the dis¬ 
enchantment which comes to us so slowly and yet so 
fast, — for we will not believe in evil until too late, and 
then it seems to come too rapidly, — that day was to her 
a whole century of reflection, and it was also a day of 
religious thoughts and resignation. She refused the 
alms of the man who had betrayed her ; she renounced 
the world, and made an honor of her fault. She gave 
herself up to maternal love, enjoying in exchange for 
the social enjoyments to which she had bid farewell, 
its fullest delights. She lived by her labor, and found 
her wealth in her son ; and the day came, the hour 
came which repaid her for the long, slow sacrifices of 
her indigence. At the last Exhibition her son had re¬ 
ceived the cross of the Legion of honor. The news¬ 
papers, unanimous in favor of a hitherto ignored talent, 
rang with praises that were now sincere. Artists them¬ 
selves recognized Schinner as a master, and the dealers 
were ready to cover his canvases with gold. 

At twenty-five years of age Hippolyte Schinner, to 
whom his mother had transmitted her woman’s soul, 
fully recognized his position in the world. Wishing to 
give his mother the pleasures that society had so long 


262 


The Purse, 


■withdrawn from her, he lived for her only, — hoping 
to see her some daj’, through the power of his fame 
and fortune, happy, rich, respected, and surrounded 
celebrated men. 

Schinner had therefore chosen his friends among the 
most honorable and distinguished men of his own age. 
Hard to satisfy in his choice, he wished to gain a posi¬ 
tion even higher than that his talents gave him. By 
forcing him to live in solitude (that mother of great 
thoughts) the toil to which he had vowed himself from 
his youth up had kept him true to the noble beliefs 
wdiich adorn the earlier j^ears of life. His adolescent 
soul had lost none of the many forms of chastity which 
make a young man a being apart, a being whose heart 
abounds in felicity, in poesj^, in virgin hopes, — feeble 
to the eyes of worn-out men, but deep because they 
are simple. He was endowed by nature with the 
gentle, courteous manners, which are those of the heart, 
and which charm even those who are not able to 
comprehend them. He was well made. His voice, 
which echoed his soul, roused noble sentiments in the 
souls of others, and bore testimon3' bj^ a certain candor 
in its tones to his innate modesty. Those who saw 
him felt drawn to him b}" one of those moral attrac¬ 
tions which, happily, scientific men cannot analyze; if 
they could they would find some phenomena of gal¬ 
vanism, or the flow of heaven knows what fluid, and 


The Purse, 263 

formulate our feelings in proportions of oxygen and 
electricity. 

These details ma}’ perhaps enlighten persons who are 
bold by nature, and also men with good cravats, as to 
why Hippolyte Schinner, in the absence of the porter, 
whom he had sent to the rue de la Madeleine for a hack¬ 
ney-coach, did not ask the porter’s wife any question 
as to the two ladies whose kindness of heart accident 
had revealed to him. But though he answered merely 
3*es or no to the questions, natural enough under the 
circumstances, which the woman put to him on his 
accident, and on the assistance rendered to him by the 
occupants of the fourth floor, he could not prevent her 
from obeying the instincts of her race. She spoke of 
the two ladies in the interests of her own police' and 
according to the subterranean judgment of a porter’s 
lodge. 

“Ah!” she said, “that must have been Mademoi¬ 
selle Leseigneur and her mother; the}’ have lived here 
the last four years. We can’t make out what those 
ladies do. In the morning (but only till twelve o’clock) 
an old charwoman, nearly deaf, and who does n’t talk 
any more than a stone wall, comes to help them ; in 
the evening two or three old gentlemen, decorated, like 
you, monsieur, — one of them keeps a carriage and ser¬ 
vants, and people do say he has sixty thousand fiancs 
a year, — well, they spend the evening here and often 


264 


The Purse, 


staj’ very late. The ladies are verj- quiet tenants, like 
you, monsieur; and economical! —they live on nothing ; 
as soon as thej" get a letter they pa}" their rent. It is 
queer, monsieur, but the mother has n’t the same name 
as the daughter. Ah ! but when they go to walk in the 
Tuileries mademoiselle is dazzling, and often young 
gentlemen follow her home, but she has the door shut 
in their faces, — and she is right; for the proprietor 
would never allo'w — ” 

The coach having arrived, Hippolyte heard no more 
and went home. His mother, to whom he related his 
adventure, dressed his wound and w"Ould not let him 
go back to the studio the next day. Consultation was 
had, divers prescriptions were ordered, and Hippolyte 
.was kept at home three days. During this seclusion, 
his unoccupied imagination recalled to him in vivid 
fragments the details .of the scene that followed his 
swoon. The profile of the young girl was deepl}" cut 
upon the shadow}^ background of his inner sight; 
again he saw the faded face of the mother and felt 
Adelaide’s soft hands ; he remembered a gesture he had 
scarcely noticed at the time, but now its exquisite grace 
was thrown into relief by memory ; then an attitude or 
the tones of a melodious voice, made more melodious 
by recollection, suddenly reappeared, like things that 
are thrown to the bottom of a river and return to the 
surface. 


The Purse, 


265 


So the first day on which he was able to go to work 
he went earl}^ to his studio ; but the visit which he had, 
incontestably, the right to make to his neighbors was 
the real reason of his haste ; his pictures were forgotten. 
The moment a passion bursts its swaddling-clothes it 
finds inexplicable pleasures known only to those who 
love. Thus there are persons who will know why the 
painter slowly mounted the stairs of the fourth stor}"; 
they will be in the secret of those rapid pulsations of his 
heart as he came in sight of the brown door of the hum¬ 
ble apartments occupied by Mademoiselle Leseigneur. 
This young girl, who did not bear the same name as her 
mother, had awakened a thousand sympathies in the 
young painter ; he longed to find in her certain similari¬ 
ties of position to his own, and he invested her with the 
misfortunes of his own origin. While he worked, Hip- 
polyte gave himself, complacently, to thoughts of love, 
and he made as much noise as he could, to induce the 
ladies to think of him as much as he thought of them. 
He stayed very late at the studio, and dined there. About 
seven o’clock he went down to call on his neighbors. 

No painter of manners and customs has dared to 
initiate us — restrained, perhaps, by a sense of pro¬ 
priety — into the trul3’ singular interiors of certain 
Parisian homes, into the secret of those dwellings 
whence issue such fresh, such elegant toilets, women so 
brilliant on the outside who nevertheless betray signs 


266 


The Purse. 


of an equivocal fortune. If the painting of such a home 
is here too frankly drawn, if you find it tedious, do not 
blame the description, which forms, as it were, an integ¬ 
ral part of the history ; for the aspect of the apartments 
occupied by his neighbors had a great infiuence upon 
the hopes and feelings of Hippolyte Schinner. 

The house belonged to one of those proprietors in 
whom there is a pre-existent horror of repairs or im¬ 
provements, — one of the men who consider their posi¬ 
tion as house-owners in Paris as their business in life. 
In the grand chain of moral species such men hold the 
middle place between usurers and misers. Optimists 
from self-interest, they are all faithful to the statu quo 
of Austria. If 3’ou mention moving a cupboard or a 
door, or making the most necessaiy of ventilators, their 
eyes glitter, their bile rises, thej" rear like a frightened 
horse. When the wind has knocked over a chimney¬ 
pot they fall ill of it, and deprive themselves and their 
families of an evening at the Gymnase or the Porte- 
Saint-Martin to pay damages. Hippolyte, who, apropos 
of certain embellishments he wished made to his studio, 
had enjoyed, gratis, the playing of a comic scene by 
Monsieur Molineux, the proprietor, was not at all sur¬ 
prised by the blackened, soiled colors, the oily tints, 
the spots, and other disagreeable accessories which 
adorned the woodwork. These stigmata of poverty 
are never without a certain poetry to an artist. 


The Purse. 


267 


Mademoiselle Leseigneur herself opened the door. 
Recognizing the young painter she bowed to him; 
then, at the same moment, with Parisian dexterity', 
and that presence of mind which pride affords, she 
turned and shut the door of a glazed partition through 
which Hippolyte might have seen linen hung to dry 
on lines above a cheap stove, an old flock bed, coal, 
charcoal, flatirons, a water-filter, china and glass, and 
all utensils necessary to a small household. Muslin 
curtains, that were sufficiently clean, carefullj^ con¬ 
cealed this “ capharnaum,” — a word then familiarly 
applied to such domestic laboratories, ill-lighted by 
narrow windows opening on a court. 

With the rapid glance of an artist Hippolyte had 
seen the furnishing, the character, and the condition 
of this first apartment, which was in fact one room 
cut in two. The respectable half, which answered the 
double purpose of ante-chamber and dining-room, was 
hung with an old yellow paper, and a velvet border, 
manufactured no doubt by Reveillon, the holes and 
the spots of which had been carefully concealed un¬ 
der wafers. Engravings representing the battles of 
Alexander, by Lebrun, in tarnished frames, decorated 
the walls at equal distances. In the centre of the 
room was a massive mahogany table, old-fashioned in 
shape, and a good deal rubbed at the corners. A 
small stove, with a straight pipe and no elbow, hardly 


268 


The Purse, 


seen, stood before the chimne}", the fireplace in which 
was turned into a closet. By way of an odd contrast, 
the chairs, which were of carved mahogan}", showed 
the relics of past splendor, but the red leather of the 
seats, the gilt nails, and the gimps showed as many 
wounds as an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard. 
This room served as a museum for a varietj* of things 
that are only found in certain amphibious households, 
iinnameable articles, which belong both to luxurj" and 
poverty. Among them HippoljTe noticed a sp3^-glass, 
handsomely ornamented, which hung above the little 
greenish mirror on the mantel-shelf. To complete the 
oddity of this furniture, a shabb}" sideboard stood be¬ 
tween the chimney' and the partition, made of common 
pine painted in mahogany, which of all woods is least 
successfulty imitated. But the red and slipper}’ fioor, 
the shabby bits of carpet before the chairs, and all the 
furniture, shone with the careful rubbing which gives 
its own lustre to old things, and brings out all the 
clearer their dilapidations, their age, and their long 
service. 

The room gave out an indefinable odor resulting from 
the exhalations of the capharnaum mingled with the 
atmosphere of the dining-room and that of the stair¬ 
case, though the window was open and the breeze from 
the street stirred the cambric curtains, which were 
carefully arranged to hide the window-frame where 


The Purse, 


269 


preceding tenants had marked their presence by various 
carvings, — a sort of domestic frescoing. 

Adelaide quickly opened the door of the next room, 
into which she ushered the painter with evident pleas¬ 
ure. Hippolyte, who had seen the same signs of pov¬ 
erty in his mother’s home, noticed them now with that 
singular keenness of impression which characterizes the 
first acquisitions of our memory ; and he was able to un¬ 
derstand, better perhaps than others could have done, 
the details of such an existence. Recognizing the things 
of his childhood, the honest 3’oung fellow felt neither 
contempt for the hidden poverty before him, nor pride 
in the luxury he had lately achieved for his mother. 

“Well, monsieur, I hope 3’ou are none the worse 
for your fall?” said the mother, rising from an old- 
fashioned sofa at the corner of the fireplace, and 
offering him a chair. 

“No, madame. I have come to thank j^ou for the 
good care you gave me; and especially mademoiselle, 
who heard me fall.” 

While making this speech, full of the adorable 
stupidity which the first agitations of a true love 
produce in the soul, Hippolyte looked at the young 
girl. Adelaide lighted the lamp with the double cur¬ 
rent of air, no doubt for the purpose of suppressing a 
tallow candle placed in a large pewter candlestick that 
was covered with drippings from an unusual flow of 


270 


The Purse, 


tallow. She bowed slightly, placed the candlestick on 
the chimney-piece, and sat down near her mother, a 
little behind the painter, so as to look at him at her 
ease, while seemingly engaged in making the lamp 
burn; for the feeble flame of the double current, aflected 
by the dampness of the tarnished chimneys, sputtered 
and struggled with an ill-cut, black wick. Observing 
the mirror above the mantel-shelf, Hippoly’te promptly" 
looked into it to see and admire Adelaide. The little 
scheme of the y’oung girl served therefore only^ to 
embarrass them both. 

While talking with Madame Leseigneur, for Hippolyte 
at first gave her that name, he examined the salon, but 
discreetly" and with propriety. The Egyptian flgures of 
the andirons (made of iron) could scarcely" be seen on 
the hearth full of ashes, where two small sticks of wood 
were trying to meet each other in front of an imitation 
back-log of earthenware. An old Aubusson carpet, 
well-mended and much faded and worn, hardly" covered 
the tiled floor, which felt cold to the feet. The walls 
were hung with a reddish paper in the style of a bro¬ 
cade with buff designs. In the centre of the partition 
opposite to the windows the painter observed an inden¬ 
tation and cracks in the paper, made by- the two doors 
of a folding-bed, where Madame Leseigneur doubtless 
slept, and which was only partly concealed by" a sofa 
placed in front of it. Opposite to the chimney", and 


The Purse. 


2T1 


above a chest of drawers in mahoganj", the style of 
which was handsome and in good taste, was the portrait 
of an officer of high rank, which the poor light hardly 
enabled the painter to make out; but, from what he 
could see of it the thought occurred to him that the 
frightful daub must have been painted in China. The 
red silk curtains to the windows were faded, like the 
coverings of the furniture in this salon with two pur¬ 
poses. On the marble top of the chest of drawers was 
a valuable tray of malachite, holding a dozen coffee- 
cups, exquisitelj" painted, and made no doubt at Sevres. 
On the mantel-shelf was the inevitable Empire clock, a 
warrior driving the four horses of a chariot, the twelve 
spokes of the wheel each telling an hour. The wax 
tapers in the candelabra were yellow with smoke, and 
at each end of the shelf was a china vase filled with arti¬ 
ficial flowers covered with dust and mixed with mosses. 

Hippolyte noticed a card-table in the centre of the 
room, laid out with new packs of cards. To an ob¬ 
server there was something indescribabty sad in this 
scene of poverty decked out like an old woman who 
tries to give the lie to her face. Most men of common 
sense would have secretly and immediate!}’ formulated 
to their own minds a problem: were these women 
honor and uprightness itself; or did they live by cards 
and scheming? But the sight of Adelaide was to a 
young man as pure as Schinner the proof of perfect 


272 


The Purse, 


innocence, and it provided the incoherencies of the 
room with honorable causes. 

“ My dear,” said the old lady to her daughter, ‘‘ I 
am cold; make us a little fire, and give me my shawl.” 

Adelaide went into an adjoining room, w’here no doubt 
she slept herself, and returned, bringing her mother a 
cashmere shawl which when new must have been of 
great value, but being old, faded, and full of darns, it 
harmonized with the furniture of the room. Madame 
Leseigneur wrapped it artistically about her with the 
cleverness of an old woman who wishes to make 3*011 
believe in the truth of her words. The 3*oung girl 
darted into the capharnaiim, and reappeared with a 
handful of small wood which she threw into the fire. 

It would be difficult to write down the conversation 
which took place between these three persons. Guided 
by the tact which deprivations and trials endured in 
3*outh nearl}" alwa3’S give a man, Hippolyte did not 
venture on the slightest allusion to the position of his 
neighbors, though he saw all around him the signs of 
an ill-disguised indigence. The simplest question would 
have been indiscreet, and permissible onlj* in the case 
of an old fi-iend. And yet the painter was deeply 
preoccupied by this hidden poverty ; his generous heart 
ached for it; knowing, however, that all kinds of pity, 
even the most sympathetic, may be offensive, he grew 
embarrassed by the conflict that existed between his 


The Purse, 


273 


lliouglits and his words. The two ladies talked first 
of painting; for women readil^^ understand the secret 
embarrassments of a first visit; perhaps they feel 
them, and the nature of their minds gives them the 
art of overcoming them. By questioning the young 
man on matters of his profession and his studies 
Adelaide and her mother emboldened him to converse. 
The little nothings of their courteous and lively conver¬ 
sation soon led him naturally to remarks and refiections 
which showed the nature of his habits and his mind. 

Sorrows had prematurely withered the face of the old 
lady, who must once have been handsome, though 
nothing remained of her good looks but the strong 
features and outlines, — in other words, the skeleton of 
a face which still showed infinite delicacy and much 
charm in the play of the eyes, which possessed a cer¬ 
tain expression peculiar to the women of the old court, 
and which no words can define. These delicate and 
subtle points ma}-, however, denote an evil nature; 
they may mean feminine guile and cunning raised to 
their highest pitch as much as they may, on the other 
hand, reveal the delicacy of a noble soul. In fact, the 
face of a woman is embarrassing to all commonplace 
observers, inasmuch as the difference between frankness 
and duplicity, between the genius of intrigue and the 
genius of the heart is, to such observers, imperceptible. 
A man endowed with a penetrating insight can guess 
18 



274 


The Purse, 


the meaning of those fleeting tones produced b}’ a line 
more or less curved, a dimple more or less deep, a 
feature more or less rounded or prominent. Tlie un¬ 
derstanding of such diagnostics lies entirely within the 
domain of intuition, which alone can discover what 
others are seeking to hide. The face of this old lad}" 
was like the apartment she occupied; it seemed as 
difficult to know whether the penury of the latter cov¬ 
ered vices or integrit}" as to decide whether Adelaide’s 
mother was an old coquette accustomed to weigh and 
to calculate and to sell everj-thing, or a loving woman 
full of dignity and noble qualities. 

But at Schinner’s age the first impulse of the heart is 
to believe in goodness. So, as he looked at Adelaide’s 
noble and half-disdainful brow, and into her eyes that 
were full of soul and of thought, he breathed, so to 
speak, the sweet and modest perfumes of virtue. In 
the middle of the conversation he took occasion to say 
something about portraits in general that he might have 
an opportunity to examine the hideous pastel over the 
chimney-piece, the colors of which had faded and in 
some places crumbled off*. 

“No doubt that portrait is valuable to you, ladies, 
on account of its resemblance,” he said, looking at 
Adelaide, “ for the drawing is horrible.” 

“ It was done in China, in great haste,” said the old 
lady, with some emotion. 



The Purse, 


275 


She looked up at the miserable sketch with that sur¬ 
render to feeling which the memory of happiness brings 
when it falls upon the heart like a blessed dew, to 
whose cool refreshment we delight to abandon our¬ 
selves. But in that old face thus raised there were 
also the traces of an eternal grief. At least, that was 
how the painter chose to interpret the attitude and 
face of his hostess, beside whom he now seated him¬ 
self. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ before long the colors of that 
pastel will have faded out. The portrait will then ex¬ 
ist only in your memory. You will see there a face 
that is dear to you, but which no one else will be able 
to recognize. Will you permit me to copy that picture 
on canvas ? It will be far more durable than what you 
have there on paper. Grant me, as a neighbor, the 
pleasure of doing you this service. There come times 
when an artist is glad to rest from his more important 
compositions by taking up some other work, and it will 
really be a relief to me to paint that head.” 

The old lady quivered as she heard these words, and 
Adelaide cast upon the artist a thoughtful glance which 
seemed like a gush of the soul itself. Hippolyte wished 
to attach himself to his two neighbors by some tie, and 
to win the right to mingle his life with theirs. His 
offer, addressing itself to the deepest affections of the 
heart, was the only one it was possible for him to 


276 


The Purse. 


make ; it satisfied his artist’s pride, and did not wound 
that of the ladies. Madame Leseigneur accepted it 
without either eagerness or reluctance, but with that 
consciousness of generous souls, who know the extent 
of the obligations such acts fasten on them, and who 
accept them as proofs of respect, and as testimonials 
to their honor. 

“J think,” said the painter, “that that is a naval 
uniform ? ” 

“Yes,” she said, “that of a captain in the navy. 
Monsieur de Rouville, m3* husband, died at Batavia, 
in consequence of wounds received in a fight with an 
English vessel which he met off the coast of Asia. 
He commanded a frigate mounting fifty-six guns, but 
the ‘ Revenge ’ was a ninetj'-gun ship. The battle 
was unequal, but m3* husband maintained it bravely 
until night, under cover of which he was able to escape. 
■\Vhen I returned to France, Bonaparte was not 3’et in 
power, and I was refused a pension. Latel3*, when I 
applied for one again, the minister told me harshl3* that 
if the Baron de Rouville had emigrated I should not 
liave lost him, and he would now in all probabilit3* be 
a vice-admiral; his Excellenc3* finally refused m3* appli¬ 
cation under some law of forfeiture. I made the at¬ 
tempt, to which certain friends urged me, 01113* for the 
sake of my poor Adelaide. I have always felt a repug¬ 
nance to hold out m3* hand for money on the ground of 


The Purse, 


277 


a sorrow which deprives a woman of her voice and 
her strength. I do not like these valuations of blood 
irreparably shed.” 

‘ ‘ Dear mother, it always harms you to talk on this 
subject.” 

At these words the Baronne Leseigneur de Rouville 
bowed her head and said no more. 

“ Monsieur,” said the j'oung girl to Hippolyte, “ I 
thought that the occupation of a painter was generally 
a rather quiet one?” 

At this question Schinner blushed, recollecting the 
noise he had been making overhead. Adelaide did 
not finish what she seemed about to say, and perhaps 
saved him from telling some fib, for she suddenly rose 
at the sound of a carriage driving up to the door. She 
went into her room and returned with two gilt cande¬ 
labra filled with wax tapers which she quickly lighted. 
Then, without waiting for the bell to ring, she opened 
the door of the first room and placed the lamp on the 
table. The sound of a kiss given and received went to 
the depths of Hippol^’te’s heart. The impatience of the 
young man to see who it was that treated Adelaide so 
familiarly was not very quicklj^ relieved, for the new 
arrivals held a murmured conversation with the girl, 
which he thought very long. 

At last, however. Mademoiselle de Rouville reap¬ 
peared, followed by two men whose dress, phj^siognomy, 



278 


The Purse, 


and general appearance were a history' in themselves. 
The first, who was about sixty years of age, wore one 
of those coats invented, I believe, for Louis XVIII., 
then reigning, in which the most difficult of all vestuary 
problems was solved by the genius of a tailor who ought 
to be immortalized. That artist knew, not a doubt of 
it! the art of transitions, which constituted the genius 
of that period, politically so fickle. Surely, it was a rare 
merit to know how to judge, as that tailor did, of his 
epoch ! This coat, which the young men of the present 
day may consider a m^’th, was neither civil nor mili¬ 
tary, but might pass at a pinch for either militar}’ or 
civil. Embroidered fieurs-de-lis adorned the flaps be¬ 
hind. The gold buttons were also fleur-de-lised. On 
the shoulders, two unused eyelet-holes awaited the use¬ 
less epaulets. These military s3'mptoms were there like 
a petition without a backer. The buttonhole of the old 
man who wore this coat (of the color called “king’s 
blue ”) was adorned with numberless ribbons. He held, 
and no doubt always did hold in his hand his three- 
cornered hat with gold tassels, for the snow}" wings of his 
powdered hair showed no signs of the pressure of that 
covering. He looked to be no more than fifty, and 
seem to enjoy robust health. While there was in him 
every sign of the frank and loyal nature of the old 
emigres^ his appearance denoted also easy and liber¬ 
tine habits, — the gay passions and the careless joviality 


The Purse, 


279 


of tile mousquetaires^ once so celebrated in the annals 
of gallantly. His gestures, his bearing, his manners, 
all proclaimed that he did not intend to change his 
royalism, nor his religion, nor his mode of life. 

A truly fantastic figure followed this ga}’ “ voltigeur 
of Louis XIV.” (that was the nickname given by the 
Bonapartists to these relics of the old monarchy) ; but 
to paint it properl}- the individual himself ought to be 
the principal figure in a picture in which he is only 
an accessoiy. Imagine a thin and withered personage, 
dressed like the first figure, and yet only the reflection 
or the shadow of it. The coat was new on the back of 
the one, and old and faded on that of the other. The 
powder in the hair of the counterpart seemed less white, 
the gold of the fleurs-de-lis less dazzling, the e3’elets 
more vacant, the mind weaker, the vital strength nearer 
its termination, than in the other. In short, he realized 
that saying of Rivarol about Champcenetz: “He is 
my moonlight.” He was onty the echo of the other, a 
faint, dull echo; between the two there was all the dif¬ 
ference that there is between the flrst and last proof 
of a lithograph. The chevalier—for he was a chevalier 
— said nothing, and no one said anything to him. Was 
he a friend, a poor relation, a man who sta^-ed by the 
old beau, as a female companion by an old woman? 
Was he a mixture of dog, parrot, and friend? Had he 
saved the fortune, or merel}^ the life of his benefactor? 



280 


The Purse, 


Was he the Trim of another Uncle Tobj’? Elsewhere, 
as well as at Madame de Rouville’s, he excited curiosity. 
Who was there under the Restoration who could recol¬ 
lect an attachment before the Revolution on the part of 
the Chevalier to his friend’s wife, now dead for over 
twent}’ years? 

The personage who seemed to be the less ancient 
of these two relics, advanced gallantly to the Baronne 
de Rouville, kissed her hand, and seated himself beside 
her. The other bowed and sat beside his chief, at a 
distance represented b}^ two chairs. Adelaide came up 
and put her elbows on the back of the chair occupied 
b}’ the old gentleman, imitating unconsciously the atti¬ 
tude which Guerin has given to Dido’s sister in his 
famous picture. Though the familiarity of the old gen¬ 
tleman was that of a father, it seemed for a moment to 
displease her. 

‘ ‘ What! do you mean to pout at me ? ” he said. 

Then he cast one of those oblique glances full of 
shrewdness and perception at Schinner, — a diplomatic 
glance, the expression of which was prudent uneasi¬ 
ness, the polite curiosit}^ of well-bred people who seem 
to ask on seeing a stranger, “ Is he one of us?” 

“ This is our neighbor,” said the old lady, motioning 
to Hippolyte. “ Monsieur is the celebrated painter, 
whose name you must know very well in spite of 3’our 
indifference to art.” 


The Purse. 


281 


The gentleman smiled at his old friend’s mischievous 
omission of the name, and bowed to the young man. 

“Yes, indeed,” he said, “ I have heard a great deal 
about his pictures in the Salon. Talent has many 
privileges, monsieur,” he added, glancing at the artist’s 
red ribbon. “That distinction which we acquire at the 
cost of our blood and long services, you obtain young; 
but all glories are sisters,” he added, touching the cross 
of Saint-Louis which he wore. 

Hippolj^te stammered a few words of thanks and re¬ 
tired into silence, content to admire with growing en¬ 
thusiasm the beautiful head of the young girl who 
charmed him. Soon he forgot in this delightful con¬ 
templation the evident poverty of her home. To him, 
Adelaide’s face detached itself from a luminous back¬ 
ground. He answered briefly all questions which were 
addressed to him, and which he fortunatel}^ heard, 
thanks to that singular faculty of the soul which allows 
thought to run double at times. Who does not know 
what it is to continue plunged in a deep meditation, 
pleasurable or sad, to listen to the inward voice, and 
3’et give attention to a conversation or a'reading? 
Wonderful dualism, which often helps us to endure bores 
with patience ! Hope, fruitful and smiling, brought him 
a thousand thoughts of happiness; what need for him 
to dwell on things about him? A child full of trust, he 
thought it shameful to anal3’ze a pleasure. 



282 


The Purse, 


After a certain lapse of time he was aware that the 
old lady and her daughter were playing cards with the 
old gentleman. As to the satellite, he stood behind his 
friend, wholly occupied with the latter’s game, answer¬ 
ing tlie mute questions the player made to him by little 
approving grimaces which repeated the interrogative 
motions of the other’s face. 

“ Du Halga, I alwa3’s lose,” said the gentleman. 

“You discard too carelessh’,” said the baroness. 

“It is three months since I have been able to win a 
single game,” said he. 

“ Monsieur le comte, have 3’ou aces?” asked the old 
lady. 

“ Yes, mark one,” he answered. 

“Don’t }’ou want me to advise j^ou?” said Adelaide. 

“ No, no ; sta}’ there in front of me ! It would double 
my losses if I could n’t see j^our face.” 

At last the game ended. The old gentleman drew 
out his purse and threw two louis on the table, not 
without ill-humor. “Fort}" francs, as true as gold!” 
said he ; “ and, the deuce ! it is eleven o’clock.” 

“ It is eleven o’clock,” repeated the mute personage, 
looking at the painter. 

The young man, hearing those words rather more 
distinctly than the others, thought it was time to with¬ 
draw. Returning to the world of common ideas, he 
uttered a few ordinary phrases, bowed to the baroness, 


The Purse. 


283 


her daughter, and the two gentlemen, and went home, 
a prey to the first joys of true love, without trying to 
analyze the little events of this evening. 

The next day the painter was possessed with the most 
violent desire to see Adelaide again. If he had listened 
to his passion he would have gone to his neighbors on 
arriving at his studio at six o’clock in the morning. 
But he still kept his senses sufficiently to wait till the 
afternoon. As soon, however, as he thought he could 
present himself he went down and rang their bell, not 
without much palpitation of the heart, and then, blush¬ 
ing like a girl, he timidly asked Mademoiselle Le- 
seigneur, who had opened the door, for the portrait of 
Monsieur de Eouville. 

“ But come in,” said Adelaide, who had no doubt 
heard his step on the stairway. 

The painter followed her, abashed and out of counte¬ 
nance, not knowing what to say, — so stupid did his 
happiness make him. To see Adelaide, to listen to 
the rustle of her gown after longing all the morning to 
be near her, after jumping up a dozen times and saying, 
“ I will go ! ” and 3'et not daring to do so, — this, to him, 
was so rich and full a life that such emotions if too pro¬ 
longed would have exhausted his soul. The heart has 
the singular property" of giving an extraordinary’ value 
to nothings. We know the joy’ a traveller feels in 
gathering the twig of a plant or a leaf unknown to him, 



284 


The Purse, 


when be has risked his life in the quest. The nothings 
of love are precious in the same wa3^ 

The old lady was not in the salon. When the 3’oung 
girl found herself alone with the painter she brought a 
chair and stood on it to take down the portrait; but 
perceiving that she could not unhook it without stepping 
on the chest of drawers, she turned to Hippol3de and 
said to him, blushing: — 

“I am not tall enough. Will 3’ou take it down?’* 

A feeling of modest3", shown in the expression of her 
face and the accent of her voice, was the real motive of 
her request; and the 3'oung man, so understanding it, 
gave her one of those intelligent glances which are the 
sweetest language of love. Seeing that the painter 
had guessed her feeling, Adelaide lowered her e3’es 
with that impulse of pride which belongs onl3" to virgins. 
Not finding a word to sa3^ and feeling almost intimi¬ 
dated, the painter took down the picture, examined it 
gravel3" in the light from the window, and then went 
awa3^ without saying anything more to Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur than, “ I will return it soon.” 

Each during that rapid moment felt one of those 
mysterious, violent commotions the effects of which in 
the soul can be compared onl3’’ to those produced b3’’ a 
stone when flung into a lake. The soft expansions 
which then are born and succeed each other, indefinable, 
multiplying, unending, agitate the heart as the rings in 


The Purse. 285 

the water widen in the distance from the centre where 
the stone fell. 

Hippolyte returned to his studio, armed with the por¬ 
trait. His easel was alread}^ prepared with a canvas, 
the palette was set with its colors, the brushes cleaned, 
the light arranged. Until his dinner-hour he worked 
at the picture with that eagerness which artists put into 
their caprices. In the evening he again went to Madame 
de Rouville’s and remained from nine to eleven. Except 
for the different topics of conversation, this evening was 
ver}’ like its predecessor. The old men arrived at the 
same hour, the same game of piquet was played, the 
same phrases were repeated, and the sum lost by 
Adelaide’s old friend was the same as that lost the 
night before, — the only change being that Hippolyte, 
grown a little bolder, ventured to talk to Adelaide. 

Eight days passed in this way, during which the 
feelings of the painter and those of the young girl 
underwent those delicious, slow transformations which 
lead young souls to a perfect understanding. So, day 
by day, Adelaide’s glance as she welcomed her friend 
became more intimate, more trustful, gayer, and more 
frank ; her voice, her manners grew more winning, more 
familiar. They both laughed and talked and communi¬ 
cated their ideas to each other, talking of themselves 
with the naivetd of two children, who in the course of 
one daj" can make acquaintance as if the}' had lived 


286 


The Purse, 


together for three years. Schinner wished to learn 
piquet. Totally ignorant of the game he naturally 
made blunder after blunder; and, like the old gentle¬ 
man, he lost nearly every game. 

Without having yet told their love, the two lovers 
knew very well that they belonged to each other. 
Hippolyte delighted in exercising his power over his 
timid friend. Man}" a concession was made to him by 
Adelaide, who, tender and devoted as she was, was 
easily the dupe of those pretended sulks which the 
least intelligent of lovers, and the most artless of 
maidens invent, and constantly employ, just as spoilt 
children take advantage of the power their mother’s 
love has given them. For instance, all familiarity sud¬ 
denly ceased between the old count and Adelaide. 
The young girl understood the painter’s gloom, and 
the thoughts hidden beneath the folds of his brow, 
from the harsh tone of the exclamations he made as 
the old man unceremoniously kissed her hands or 
throat. On the other hand, Mademoiselle Leseigneur 
soon began to hold her lover to a strict account of 
his slightest actions. She was so uneasy and so un¬ 
happy if he did not come; she knew so well how to 
scold him for his absence, that the painter renounced 
seeing his friends, and went no longer into society. 
Adelaide showed a woman’s jealousy on discovering 
that sometimes, after leaving Madame de Rouville’s 


The Purse, 


287 


at eleven o’clock, the painter made other visits and 
appeared in several of the gajxst salons of Paris. 
That sort of life, she told him, was very bad for his 
health, and she asserted, with the profound conviction 
to which the tones, the gesture, the look of those we 
love give such immense power, that “a man who was 
obliged to give his time and the charms of his mind to 
several women at once, could never be the possessor of 
a really deep affection.” 

So the painter was soon led, as much b}* the despot¬ 
ism of his passion as b}^ the exactions of a 3'oung girl, 
to live almost wholly in the little home where all things 
pleased him. No love was ever purer or more ardent. 
On either side the same faith, the same mind, the same 
delicac}^ made their passion grow apace without the 
help of those sacrifices b}’ which po many persons 
seek to prove their love. Between these lovers there 
existed so constant an interchange of tender feelings 
that they never knew who gave or who received the 
most. A natural, involuntary inclination made the 
union of their souls close indeed. The progress of 
this true feeling was so rapid that two months after 
the accident through which the painter obtained the 
happiness of knowing Adelaide, their lives had be¬ 
come one and the same life. From early morning the 
young girl, hearing a step above her, said to herself, 
“ He is there! ” When Hippolyte returned home to 


288 


The Purse, 


dine with his mother he never failed to stop on his 
way to greet his friends; and in the evening he rushed 
to them, at the usual hour, with a lover’s punctuality. 
Thus the most tyrannical of loving women, and the 
heart most ambitious of love could have found no 
fault with the young painter. Adelaide did indeed 
taste an unalloyed and boundless happiness in finding 
realized to its fullest extent the ideal of which youth 
dreams. 

The old gentleman now came less often ; the jealous 
riippolyte took his place in the evening at the green 
table, and was equally unlucky at cards. But in the 
midst of his happiness, he thought of Madame de 
Bouville’s disastrous position, — for he had seen more 
than one sign of her distress, — and little b}" little an 
importunate thought forced its wa}^ into his mind. 
Several times, as he returned home, he had said to 
himself, ‘ ‘ What ! twenty francs every evening ? ” 
The lover dared not admit a suspicion. He spent 
two months on the portrait, and when it was finished, 
varnished, and framed, he thought it one of his best 
works. Madame de Rouville had never mentioned it 
to him; was it indifference or pride which kept her 
silent? The painter could not explain it to himself. 
He plotted gayly with Adelaide to hang the picture 
in its right place when Madame de Rouville had gone 
out for her usual walk in the Tuileries. 


The Purse, 


289 


The day came, and Adelaide went up, for the first 
time alone, to Hippolj^te’s studio, under pretence of 
seeing the portrait favorably in the light in which it 
was painted. She stood before it silent and motion¬ 
less, in a delicious contemplation where all the feelings 
of womanhood were blended into one, — and that one, 
boundless admiration for the man she loved. When 
the painter, uneas}^ at her silence, leaned forward to 
look at her, she held out her hand to him unable to 
say a word; but two tears dropped from her eyes. 
Hippolyte took that hand and kissed it, and for a 
moment they looked at each other in silence, both 
wishing to avow their love, neither of them daring 
to. As the painter held her hand within his own, 
an equal warmth, an equal throb, told them that their 
hearts were beating with the same pulse. Too deeply 
moved, the j'oung girl gentl}- left her lover’s side, say¬ 
ing, with a guileless look, “You will make my mother 
very happy.” 

“Your mother — only?” he asked. 

“ Oh, as for me, I am too happy,” she replied. 

The painter bent his head and was silent, frightened 
at the violence of the feeling the tone of those words 
awakened in his heart. Both understood the danger 
of their position, and they went downstairs with the 
portrait and put it in its place. That night Hippolj’te 
dined for the first time with the baroness, who kissed 
19 


290 


The Purse, 


him with tearful gratitude. In the evening the old 
emigre^ a former comrade of the Baron de Rouville, 
made a special visit to his two friends to announce his 
appointment as a vice-admiral. His terrestrial navi¬ 
gations across Germany and Russia had been credited 
to him as naval campaigns. When he saw the portrait, 
he shook the painter by the hand, exclaiming: “ Faith ! 
though my old carcass is not worth preserving, I’d 
gladly give five hundred pistoles for anything as like me 
as that is like my friend Rouville.” 

Hearing the proposal, the baroness looked at her friend 
with a smile, and let the signs of a sudden gratitude 
appear on her face. Hippolyte fancied that the old 
admiral intended to pay the price of the two portraits 
in pacing for his own; he was offended, and said 
stiffly, “Monsieur, if I were a portrait-painter I should 
not have painted that one.” 

The admiral bit his lips and began to play. The 
painter sat by Adelaide, who proposed him six kings 
which he accepted. While playing, he noticed in 
Madame de Rouville a degree of eagerness for the 
game which surprised him. The old lady had never 
before manifested such anxiet}^ to win, or looked with 
such pleasure at the admiral’s gold coins. During that 
evening suspicions once more came up in Hippolyte’s 
mind to trouble his happiness and give him a certain 
sense of distrust. Did M.adame de Rouville live by 



The Purse. 


291 


cards? Was she placing at that moment to pay some 
debt, or was she driven to it by some necessity ? Per¬ 
haps her rent was due. That old man seemed too 
worldly-wise to let her win his money for nothing. 
What interest brought him to that poor house, — he, 
a rich man? Why, though formerly so familiar with 
Adelaide, had he lately renounced all familiarities, — 
his right perhaps ? These involuntaiy thoughts prompted 
Schinner to examine the old man and the baroness, whose 
glances of intelligence and the oblique looks they cast 
on Adelaide and himself displeased him greatl3% 

“ Can it be that they deceive me?’’ 

To Hippolyte the thought was horrible, withering; 
and he believed it just so far as to let it torture him. 
He resolved to remain after the departure of the two 
old men, so as to confirm his suspicions or get rid of 
them. He drew out his purse at the end of the game, 
intending to pay Adelaide, but his mind was so filled 
with these poignant thoughts that he laid it on the table 
and fell into a revery which lasted several minutes. 
Then, ashamed of his silence, he rose, answered some 
commonplace inquiry of Madame de Rouville’s, going 
close up to her to scrutinize that aged face. He left 
the salon a prey to dreadful uncertainties. After going 
down a few stairs, he recollected his purse and went 
back to get it. “I left my purse,"’ he said to Adelaide. 

“No,” she answered, coloring. 


292 


The Purse, 


“ I thought I left it there,” he said, pointing to the 
card-table. 

Ashamed for both mother and daughter at not finding 
it, he stood looking at them with a bewildered air which 
made them both laugh ; then he turned pale, and felt in 
his waistcoat pockets, stammering, I am mistaken, 
I must have it somewhere.” 

At one end of the purse were fifteen louis, at the 
other some small change. The robbery was so flagrant, 
so impudently deniedj that Hippolyte had no doubt as 
to the character of his neighbors. He stood still on the 
staircase, for he could hardly go down; his legs trem¬ 
bled, his head swam, he perspired, his teeth chattered 
in a cold chill, and he was literally unable to walk in 
the grasp of that cruel convulsion caused by the over¬ 
throw of all his hopes. At that moment, a crowd of 
apparently trifling circumstances came back into his 
mind, all corroborating his dreadful suspicions; taken 
together with the certainty of this last act, they opened 
his eyes to the character and the life of the two women. 
Had they waited till the portrait was done to steal his 
purse? Thus combined with profit, the theft seemed 
more odious than at first. The painter remembered, 
with anguish, that for the last two or three evenings 
Adelaide had examined, with what seemed girlish curi¬ 
osity, the netting of the worn silk, probably to ascertain 
the sum contained in the purse, — making jests that 


The Purse, 


293 


seemed innocent, but were no doubt intended to cover 
the fact that she was watching for the time when the 
purse should be well filled. 

“ The old admiral must have good reasons for not 
marrying her, and the baroness intends that I — ” 

He stopped, and did not continue the thought, for it 
was checked by one more just. 

“ If,” thought he, “ the baroness wished me to marry 
her daughter they would not have robbed me.” 

Then, unable to renounce his illusions, or to abandon 
a love so deeply rooted in his being, he tried to find 
some explanation. “ My purse must have fallen on the 
ground; perhaps it was under m3’ chair; perhaps I 
have it, I am so absent-minded ! ” He felt in all his 
pockets with rapid motions, —but no, that cursed purse 
was not in them. His cruel memory recalled every 
particular of the fatal facts ; he distinctly saw the purse 
lying on the table. Unable to doubt the theft, he now 
excused Adelaide, saying to himself that no one ought 
to judge the poor and unfortunate too hastily. No 
doubt there was some secret in this apparentl3’ de¬ 
grading action. He would not allow himself to believe 
that that proud, noble face was a lie. Nevertheless, 
that miserable apartment had now lost all those poesies 
of love which once embellished it; he saw it as it was, 
dirty and faded ; it seemed the outward likeness of an 
inward life without nobleness, unoccupied and vicious. 


294 


The Purse, 


Are not our feelings written, so to speak, on the things 
about us ? 

The next morning he rose without having slept. 
The anguish of the heart, that serious moral maladj^, 
had made great strides into his being. To lose an 
imagined happiness, to renounce an expected future, 
is far more bitter suffering than that caused by the 
ruin of an experienced joy, however great that joy 
may have been. Is not hope better than memor}"? 
The meditations into which our souls suddenly fall 
are then like a shoreless sea, on whose bosom we 
may float for a moment, though nothing can save 
our love from sinking and perishing. It is a dreadful 
death. Are not our feelings the most vivid and glori¬ 
ous part of our lives? From such partial death as 
this come those great ravages seen in certain organiza¬ 
tions that are both delicate and strong, when assailed 
b}" disillusions or by the balking of hopes and passions. 
Thus it was with the young painter. He went out 
early in the morning and walked about in the cool 
shade of the Tuileries, absorbed in thought, and taking 
no notice of any one. There, by chance, one of his 
3’oung friends met him, a college and atelier comrade, 
with whom he had lived as with a brother. 

“ Wh}^, Hippolyte, what's the matter?” said Fran¬ 
cois Souchet, a 3'oung sculptor who had just obtained 
the grand prix and was soon going to Ital}^ 


The Purse, 


295 


“ I am very unhappy,” replied Hippolyte, gravely. 

“ Nothing but a love-affair can make 3’ou so. Wealth, 
fame, consideration, — you have everything else ! ” 

Little by little, the confidences began, and finally 
the painter acknowledged his love. When he spoke of 
the rue de Suresnes, and of a 3’oung girl living on the 
fourth stor3", “Halt!” cried Souchet, ga3dy, “that’s 
a little girl I go to see every morning at the Assump¬ 
tion ; I’m courting her. Why, my dear fellow, we all 
know her. Her mother is a baroness. Do 3’ou believe 
in baronesses who live on a fourth fioor? Brrr I Well, 
well! 3’ou belong to the age of gold. The rest of us 
meet that old mother every day in the Tuileries. That 
face of hers, and the wa3" she carries herself tells all. 
Come now, did 3’OU never guess what she is, from the 
way she carries her bag ? ” 

The two friends walked about for some time, and 
several 3’Oung men who knew Schinner and Souchet 
joined them. The painter’s love-affair was related by 
the sculptor, who supposed it of little importance. 

Man3* were the outcries, the laughs, the jests, inno¬ 
cent enough, but full of the familiar gayet3" of artists, 
and horribly painful to Hippolyte. A certain chastity 
of soul made him suffer at the sight of his heart’s secret 
lightl3" tossed about, his passion torn to shreds, the 
3 'Oung girl, whose life had seemed to him so modest, 
judged, truly or falsel3", with such careless indifference. 


296 


The Purse, 


“But, my dear fellow, have you never seen the 
baroness’s shawl?” said Souchet. 

“Don’t 3’ou ever follow the little one when she 
goes to the Assumption?” said Joseph Bridau, a 
3’oung art-student in Gros’s atelier. 

“Ha! the mother has, among her other virtues, a 
gra}^ dress which I regard as a tj’pe,” said Bixiou, the 
caricaturist. 

‘ ‘ Listen, Hippolyte ; ” said the sculptor, ‘ ‘ come here 
at four o’clock, and anal3’ze the demeanor of the mother 
and daughter. If, after that, you have an3’ doubts, I 
give 3"Ou up, — nothing can ever be made of 3'ou; 
3’ou ’ll be capable of marrying your porter’s daughter.” 

The painter parted from his friends a victim to a 
contradiction of feelings. Adelaide and her mother 
seemed to him above such accusations, and at the 
bottom of his heart he felt remorse for having ever 
doubted the purity of that 3’oung girl, so beautiful 
and so simple. He went to his studio, he passed the 
door of the room where she was sitting, and he felt 
within his soul the anguish that no man ever misun¬ 
derstands. He loved Mademoiselle de Rouville so 
passionateh" that, in spite of the robber3" of his purse, 
he adored her still. His love was like that of the 
Chevalier des Grieux, adoring and purifying his mis¬ 
tress in his thoughts as she sat in the cart on her wa3" 
to the prison for lost women. 


The Purse, 


297 


“ Why should not love make her the purest of 
beings? Shall I abandon her to sin and vice, and 
stretch no friendly hand to her ? ” That mission pleased 
him. Love makes profit out of all. Nothing attracts a 
3’oung man so much as the thought of playing the part 
of a good genius to a woman. There is something trul^' 
chivalrous in such an enterprise which commends itself 
to loft^' souls. Is it not the deepest devotion under the 
highest form, and the most gracious form? What 
grandeur in knowing that we love enough to love still 
where the love of others would be a dead thing! 

Hippol3de sat down in his studio, and contemplated 
his picture without touching it. Night overtook him in 
that attitude. Wakened from his revery b}^ the dark¬ 
ness, he went downstairs, met the old admiral on the 
stairwa}", gave him a gloomy glance and a bow, and 
fled away. He had meant to go to his neighbors, but 
the sight of Adelaide's protector froze his heart and 
overcame his resolution. He asked himself, for the 
hundredth time, what interest it could be that brought 
that old beau, a man worth eighty-thousand francs a 
year, to that fourth stoiy where he lost forty francs a 
night; that interest, he fancied, alas, he knew. 

The next da3" and the following daj^s Hippolyte spent 
on his work, trying to fight his passion b}" flinging him¬ 
self into the rush of ideas and the fire of conception. 
He succeeded only parting. Study comforted him. 


298 


The Purse, 


but it did not stifle the memory of those dear hours 
passed with Adelaide. One evening, leaving his studio, 
he found the door of the apartments of the two ladies 
half-open. Some one was standing in the recess of the 
window. The position of the door and the stairs w^as 
such that Hippolyte could not pass without seeing 
Adelaide. He bowed coldl}', with a glance of indiffer¬ 
ence ; then, judging of her sufferings by his own, an 
inward tremor overcame him, thinking of the bitterness 
his cold glance might have carried to a loving heart. 
What! end the sweetest joys that ever filled two sacred 
hearts, with the scorn of an eight days’ absence, with a 
contempt too deep for words ? — horrible conclusion ! 
Perhaps that purse was found ! he had never inquired ; 
perhaps Adelaide had expected him, in vain, eveiy 
evening! This thought, so simple, so natural, filled 
the lover with fresh remorse; he asked himself if the 
proofs of attachment the young girl had given him, if 
those delightful conversations bearing the impress of 
love and of a mind which charmed him did not deserve 
at least an inquiry, — whether indeed the}' were not a 
pledge of justification. Ashamed of having resisted 
the longings of his heart for one whole week, thinking 
himself almost criminal in the struggle, he went that 
same evening to Madame de Pouville’s. All his sus¬ 
picions, all his thoughts of evil vanished at the sight of 
the young girl, now pale and thin. 


The Purse, 299 

“ Good God! what is the matter?” he said to her, 
after bowing to Madame de Rouville. 

Adelaide made no answer, but she gave him a sad, 
discouraged look which went to his heart. 

“ You look as if 3’ou had been working too hard,” 
said the old lady. “ You are changed. I fear we have 
been the cause of your seclusion. That portrait must 
have delaj^ed other work more important for your 
reputation.” 

Hippolyte was only too happy to find so good an 
excuse for his absence. “ Yes,” he said, “ I have been 
very busy — but I have suffered — ” 

At these w’ords Adelaide raised her head; her eyes 
no longer reproached him. 

‘‘ Y^ou have, then, thought us indifferent to what 
makes 3’ou happj' or unhappy ? ” said the old lady. 

“ I have done wrong,” he said. “ And 3’et there are 
sufferings which we can tell to no one, no matter who 
it is, even to a heart that may have known us long.” 

“The sincerity and the strength of friendship ought 
not to be measured by time. I have seen old friends 
who could not shed a tear for each other’s misfortune,” 
said the baroness, nodding her head. 

“ But tell me, what is the matter?” asked Hippolyte 
of the poor girl. 

“Oh, nothing,” said the baroness; “Adelaide in¬ 
sisted on sitting up two or three nights to finish a piece 


300 


The Purse. 


of work; she would not listen to me when I told her 
that a da^" more or less could make no difference — ” 

Hippolyte was not listening. Seeing those two faces, 
so calm, so noble, he blushed for his suspicions and 
attributed the loss of the purse to some mysterious 
accident. That evening was delightful to him, and 
perhaps to her. There are secrets that young souls 
understand so well. Adelaide divined her lover’s 
thoughts. Without intending to reveal his wrong¬ 
doing, Hippolyte tacitl}^ admitted it; he returned to 
his mistress more loving, more affectionate than ever, 
as if to buy a silent pardon. Adelaide now tasted joys 
so sweet, so perfect, that the pangs which had cruelly 
bruised her spirit seemed but a slight penalt}^ to pay 
for them. And 3’et that absolute accord between their 
hearts, that comprehension which was full of magic, 
was clouded suddenly by a little speech of Madame de 
Rouville’s. “Let us get ready for our game,” she 
said. “ M}’ old Kergarouet insists upon it.” 

That speech roused all the poor painter’s fears ; he 
blushed as he looked at Adelaide’s mother. Yet he 
could see on that face no other expression than one of 
a true kind-heartedness without insincerity; no lat.ent 
thought destro3’ed its charm; in its shrewdness there 
was no perfid3^; the gentle satire it expressed seemed 
tender, and no remorse marred its placidit3\ So he sat 
down at the card-table. Adelaide shared his game, 


The Purse. 


301 


pretending that he did not know piquet and needed an 
adviser. While they played, signs of an understand¬ 
ing passed between the mother and daughter which 
again made Hippolyte anxious, — all the more because, 
for once, he was winning. At last, however, a lucky 
throw put the lovers in Madame de Rouville’s debt. 
Hippolyte withdrew his hands from the table to search 
for money in his pockets, and suddenl}- saw lying 
before him a purse which Adelaide had slipped there 
without his noticing her; the poor child held his own 
purse in her hand, and was hiding her confusion by 
pretending to look for money to pa}’ her mother. The 
blood rushed so violently to Hippolyte’s heart that he 
almost lost consciousness. The new purse substituted 
for the old one had the fifteen louis in it, and was 
worked with gold beads. The rings, the tassels, all 
proved the good taste of the maker, who had no doubt 
spent her little savings on those ornaments of her pretty 
work. It was impossible to say with greater delicacy 
that the painter’s gift could be acknowledged only by a 
pledge of tenderness. 

AYhen Hippolyte, overcome with happiness, turned 
his eyes on Adelaide and her mother he saw them 
trembling with pleasure, happy in the success of their 
little fraud. He felt himself small, petty, contemptible ; 
he longed to punish himself, to rend his heart. Tears 
came into his eyes, and he sprang up with an irresistible 


302 


The Purse, 


impulse, took Adelaide in his arms, pressed her to his 
heart, snatched a kiss, and cried, with the honest good- 
faith of an artist, looking straight at the baroness: — 

“ I ask you to give her to me for m3" wife! ” 
Adelaide’s eyes as she looked at him were half-angry, 
and Madame de Rouville, somewhat astonished, w"as 
seeking a replj’ when the scene was interrupted bj" a 
ring at the bell. The vice-admiral appeared, followed 
b}" Madame Schinner. After guessing the cause of her 
son’s grief, which he had vainl3" tried to hide from 
her, Hippolyte’s mother had made inquiries among her 
friends as to Adelaide. Alarmed bj" the calumnies 
which assailed the young girl, unknown to the old ad¬ 
miral, the Comte de KergarouSt, she went to the latter 
and told him what she had heard. In his fury he wanted, 
he said, “ to cut the ears of those rascals.” Excited b}^ 
his wrath he told Madame Schinner the secret of his 
visits and his intentional losses at cards, that being the 
onty way in which the baroness’s pride gave him a 
chance to succor the widow of his old friend. 

When Madame Schinner had paid her respects to 
Madame de Rouville, the latter looked at the Comte de 
Kergarouet, the Chevalier du Halga (the former friend 
of the late Comtesse de Kergarouet), then at Hippoly te 
and Adelaide, and said, with the delightful manners of 
the heart, “We seem, I think, to be a family party.” 


LA GRENADlilRE 


TO CAROLINE. 

To THE POESY OP HIS JoURNEY. 

A Grateful Traveller. 

La Grenadiere is a little habitation on the right 
bank of the Loire, sloping towards it and about a 
mile from the bridge of Tours. Just here the river, 
broad as a lake, is strewn with green islets, and mar¬ 
gined by rocky shores, on which are numerous country- 
houses, all built of white stone and surrounded by 
vinej’ards and gardens, in which the finest fruits in 
the world ripen under a sunny exposure. Industri¬ 
ously terraced b}’ generation after generation, the hol¬ 
lows of the rock reflect the rays of the sun, and the 
artificial temperature thus produced allows the culti¬ 
vation of the products of hot climates in the open 
ground. 

From one of the least sunken of these hollows which 
cut into the hillside, rises the sharp steeple of Saint- 
Cyr, a little village to which the scattered houses nomi- 
nall}^ belong. A little beyond, the Choisille falls into 



804 


La Grenadiere. 


the Loire, through a rich valley which runs up among 
the hills. La Grenadiere [The Pomegranate], standing 
half-way up the rocky shore, about three hundred feet 
from the church, is one of those venerable homesteads 
some two or three hundred years old, which aj’e seen 
in every lovel}" situation in Touraine. A cleft in the 
rock has facilitated the making of a stairway, which 
descends by easy steps to the “lev^e,” — the local name 
given to the dike built at the base of the slope to keep 
the Loire to its bed, and along which runs the mail 
road from Paris to Nantes. 

At the top of this flight of steps is a gate opening on 
a narrow, stony road, cut between two terraces which 
resemble fortifications, covered with vines and palings 
to prevent the rolling down of the earth. This path¬ 
way, starting from the foot of the upper terrace, and 
nearl}^ hidden by the trees that crown it, leads to the 
house by a steep pitch, giving a view of the river which 
enlarges at every step. This sunken path ends at a 
second gate, gothic in character, arched, and bearing 
a few simple ornaments, which is now in mins and 
overgrown with gilli-flowers, ivy, mosses, and pellitor^". 
These ineradicable plants decorate the walls of all the 
terraces, hanging from the clefts of the stone courses 
and designating each season by a garland of its own 
flowers. 

Beyond this mouldy gate a little garden, wrested 


La Crrenadiere. 


305 


from the rock bj" another terrace, with an old and 
blackened balustrade which overlooks the rest, pre¬ 
sents a lawn adorned b}" a few trees, and a multitude 
of roses and other flowering plants. Opposite to the 
gate, at the other end of the terrace, is a wooden 
pavilion resting against a neighboring wall, the posts 
of which are hidden under jasmine, honej'suckle, vines, 
and clematis. In the middle of the garden stands the 
house, beyond a vaulted portico covered wnth vines, on 
which is the gate of a huge cellar hollowed in the rock. 
The house is surrounded with vine-clad arbors, and 
pomegranate-trees — which give their name to the place, 
— are growing in the open ground. The facade has 
two large windows separated by a very countrified front¬ 
door, and three attic windows, placed very high up 
in the roof relatively to the low height of the ground 
floor. This roof has two gables and is covered with 
slate. The walls of the main building are painted 
yellow, and the door, the shutters on the lower floor, 
and the blinds on the roof are green. 

When you enter the house, you find a little hall-way 
with a winding staircase, the grade of which changes 
at every turn; the wood is rotten, and the balusters, 
turning like a screw, are discolored by long usage. 
To the right of the door is a vast dining-room with 
antique panelling, floored in white tiles, manufactured 
at Chateau-Regnault; on the left is the salon, a room 
20 


306 


La Grenadiere. 


of the same size, but without panels, hung with a gold- 
colored paper with green bordering. Neither of the 
two rooms has a plastered ceiling. The joists are of 
walnut, and the spaces are filled in with a natural 
white clay mixed with hair. On the first floor are 
two large chambers with white-washed walls; the stone ^ 
chimney-pieces in these rooms are less richly carved 
than those in the rooms below. All the windows face 
south. To the north there is only a door opening be¬ 
hind the staircase on a vineyard. 

On the left of the house, a building with a wooden 
front backs against the wall; the wood being protected 
from the sun and rain by slates which lie in long blue 
lines, upright and transversal, upon the walls. The 
kitchen, consigned as it were to this cottage, commu¬ 
nicates with the house, but it has an entrance of its 
own raised from the ground b}" a few steps, near to 
which is a deep well covered with a rustic pump; 
its sides overgrown with water-plants and tall grass 
and juniper. This recent construction proves that 
La Grenadiere was originally a mere veiidangeoir^ 
where the owners, living in the city (from which it is 
separated only by the broad bed of the Loire), came 
only to attend to their vintages, or to bring parties of 
pleasure. On such occasions they sent provisions for 
the day, and slept there at night onl}’ when the grapes 
were being gathered. 


La Grenadiere, 


307 


But the English have fallen like a swarm of 
grass-hoppers upon Touraine, and La Grenadiere was 
furnished with a kitchen that they might hire it. 
Fortunately this modern appendage is concealed bj" 
the first lindens planted along a path running down 
a ravine behind the orchard. The vineyard, of about 
two acres, rises above the house, and overlooks it 
on a slope so steep that it is very difficult to climb. 
Between the back of the house and this hill, green 
with trailing shoots, is a narrow space of not more 
than five feet, always cold and damp, a sort of ditch 
full of rampant vegetation, and filled in rainy weather 
with the drainage from the vinej’ard, used to enrich 
the soil of the flower-beds of the terrace with the 
balustrade. 

The little house of the vine-dresser backs against the 
left gable; it has a thatched roof and makes a sort of 
pendant to the kitchen. The whole property is enclosed 
b}" walls and palings; the orchard is planted with fruit- 
trees of all kinds ; in short, not an inch of the precious 
soil is lost to cultivation. If man neglects an arid 
corner of this rock. Nature fiings into it a fig-tree 
perhaps, or wild-fiowers, or a few strawberry-vines 
sheltered among the stones. 

Nowhere in the world can you find a home so modest, 
yet so grand, so rich in products, in fragrance, and 
iu outlook. It is in the heart of Touraine, a little 


808 


La Grenadiere. 


Touraine in itself, where all the flowers, all the fruits, 
all the beauties of that region are fully represented. 
There are the grapes of every clime, the figs, the 
peaches, the pears of every species, melons growing 
wild in the open ground, as well as liquorice, the 3’ellow 
broom of Spain, the oleanders of Italj", the jasmine of 
the Azores. The Loire flows at 3’our feet. You look 
down upon it from a terrace raised thirty fathom above 
its capricious waters. You inhale its breezes coming 
fresh from the sea and perfumed on their way b}^ the 
flowers along its shores. A wandering cloud, which 
changes at eveiy instant its color and its form as it 
moves in space beneath the cloudless blue of heaven, 
gives a thousand varied aspects to each detail of that 
glorious scenery" which meets the eye whereA^er turned. 
From there, 3’ou may see the river shores from Amboise, 
the fertile plain where rises Tours, its suburbs, its manu¬ 
factories, and Le Plessis ; also a portion of the left bank, 
from Vouvra3^ to Saint-S3’mphorien, describing a half¬ 
circle of smiling Auneyards. The view here is limited 
only b3' the rieh slopes of Cher, a blue horizon broken 
by parks and villas. To the west the soul is lost in 
contemplation of the broad sheet of waters which bears 
upon its bosom, at all hours, vessels with Avhite sails 
filled with the winds which ever sweep its A^ast basin. 

A prince might make La Grenadiere his villa; a 
poet would make it his home; lovers would count it 


La Grenadiere, 


809 


their sweetest refuge ; a worth}^ burgher of Tours might 
live there,—the spot has poems for all imaginations, 
for the humblest, for the coldest, as for the highest and 
the most fervent; no one ever staj’ed there without 
breathing an atmosphere of happiness, without compre¬ 
hending a tranquil life devoid of ambition, relieved of 
care. Reveiy is in the air, in the murmuring flow of 
waters; the sands speak, the}^ are sad or gay, golden 
or sullied ; all is in motion around the possessor of this 
spot, motionless amid its ever-blooming flowers and its 
toothsome fruits. An Englishman gives a thousand 
francs merel}^ to live six months in that humble dwel¬ 
ling, and he binds himself to gather no products ; if he 
wants the fruits, he pa3's a double rent; if the wine 
tempts him, he doubles it again. What, then, is La 
Grenadiere worth, with that flight of steps, the sunken 
path, the triple terrace, the two acres of vinej’ard, those 
balustrades, those roses, the portico, its pump, the 
wealth of tangled clematis and the cosmopolitan trees ? 
Offer no price. La Grenadiere cannot be bought. Sold 
once in 1690 for forty thousand francs, and left with 
bitter regret, as the Arab of the desert abandons a 
favorite horse, it still remains in the same familj", of 
which it is the pride, the patrimonial jewel, the Regent 
diamond. To see is not to have, saith the poet. From 
these terraces 3’ou see three valle3's of Touraine and the 
cathedral suspended in ether like a delicate filagree. 


810 


La Grrenadiere. 


Can you pay for such treasures? Could you buy the 
health you will recover beneath those lindens? 

In the spring of one of the finest years of the Kestora- 
tion, a lad}^ accompanied by a maid and two children, 
came to Tours in search of a house. She saw La 
Grenadiere and hired it. Perhaps the distance that 
separated it from the town decided her to take it. The 
salon was her bed-chamber; she put each child in one 
of the rooms on the upper fioor, and the maid slept in 
a little chamber above the kitchen. The dining-room 
became the living-room of the little family'. The lady 
furnished the house very simply, but with taste; there 
was nothing useless and nothing that conve3’ed a sense 
of luxuiy. The furniture was of walnut, without orna¬ 
ment. The neatness, and the harmony of the interior 
with the exterior made the charm of the house. 

It was difficult to know whether Madame Williamson 
(that was the name the lady gave) belonged to the rich 
bourgeoisie, or to the upper nobility, or to certain 
equivocal classes of the feminine species. Her sim¬ 
plicity of life gave grounds for contradictory supposi¬ 
tions, though her manners seemed to confirm the most 
favorable. It was, therefore, not long after her arrival 
at Saint-Cyr that her reserved conduct excited the 
curiosity of idle persons, who had the provincial habit 
of remarking upon everything that promised to enliven 
the narrow sphere in which they lived. 


La G-renadiere, 811 

Madame Williamson was rather tall, slight and thin, 
but delicately made. She had pretty feet, more re¬ 
markable for the grace with which they were joined to 
the ankles than for their narrowness, — a vulgar merit. 
Her hands were handsome when gloved. A certain 
redness, that seemed movable and rather dark in tone, 
disfigured her white skin, which was naturall3^ fair and 
ros}". Premature wrinkles had aged a brow that was 
fine in shape and crowned with beautiful auburn hair, 
alwaj’S braided in two strands and wound around the 
head, — a maidenlj" fashion which became her melan¬ 
choly face. Her black eyes, sunken in dark circles and 
full of feverish ardor, assumed a calmness that seemed 
deceptive; for at times, if she forgot the expression she 
imposed upon them, the}' revealed some secret anguish. 
Her oval face was rather long, but perhaps in other 
days happiness and health may have rounded its out¬ 
lines. A deceptive smile, full of gentle sadness, was 
ever on her pallid lips, but the eyes grew animated, and 
the smile expressed the delights of maternal love when 
the two children, by whom she was always accompanied, 
looked at her and asked those idle and endless questions 
which have their meaning to a mother’s heart. 

Her walk was slow and dignified. She wore but one 
style of dress, with a constancy that showed a deliberate 
intention to take no further interest in personal adorn¬ 
ment, and to forget the world, by which, no doubt, she 


312 


La Grenadiere, 


wished to be forgot. Her gown was black and very 
long, fastened round the waist with a watered ribbon, 
and over it, in guise of a shawl, was a cambric kercbief 
with a broad hem, the ends passed negligently through 
her belt. Her shoes and her black silk stockings be¬ 
trayed the elegance of her former life, and completed 
the conventional mourning that she always wore. Her 
bonnet, always of the same English shape, was gray in 
color and covered with a black veil. 

She seemed very weak and ill. The only walk she 
took was from La Grenadiere to the bridge of Tours, 
where, on a calm evening she w^ould take the two 
children to breathe the cool air from the river and 
admire the effects of the setting sun upon a landscape 
as vast as that of the Bay of Naples or the Lake of 
Geneva. During the time she lived at La Grenadiere 
she went but twice to Tours, — once to ask the principal 
of the college to direct her to the best masters of 
Latin, mathematics, and drawing; and next to arrange 
with the persons thus designated the price of their in¬ 
structions, and the hours at which her sons could take 
their lessons. But it sufficed to show herself once or 
twice a week on the bridge in the evening, to rouse the 
interest of nearly all the inhabitants of the town, who 
made it their habitual promenade. 

And yet, in spite of the harmless sp3dng which the 
dreary leisure and uneasy- curiosity of provincial towns 


La Grenadiere* 


313 


forces upon their leading societies, no real information 
as to the unknown lad}^, her rank, her fortune, or 
even her present condition, was obtained. The owner 
of La Grenadiere did, however, tell some of his friends 
the name (and it was no doubt a true one) under which 
she had taken the lease. She gave it as “Augusta Wil¬ 
liamson, Countess of Brandon.’’ The name was doubt¬ 
less that of her husband. The later events of her 
histoiy confirmed this statement; but it was never 
made public be3’ond the little world of merchants 
frequented b^^ the owner. 

So Madame Williamson continued a mysteiy to the 
leading societ}’ of Tours, and all that she allowed them 
to discover was her simple manners, delightfull}" natu¬ 
ral, her personal distinction, and the tones of an an¬ 
gelic voice. The complete solitude in which she lived, 
her melancholy, and her beaut}’ so cruell}’ obscured 
and even faded, charmed the minds of a few 3’oung 
men, w’ho fell in love with her. But the more sincere 
they were, the less bold they became; moreover, she 
was so imposing that it was difficult to address her. 
When one or two, more courageous than the rest, 
wrote to her, Madame Williamson put their letters 
unopened into the fire. She seemed to have come to 
this enchanting retreat to abandon herself wholl}’ to 
the pleasure of living there. The three masters who 
were admitted to La Grenadiere spoke with respectful 


314 


La Grenadiere, 


admiration of the close and cloudless union which 
bound the children and the mother in one. 

The children also excited a great deal of interest, 
and no mother ever looked at them without envy. 
Both resembled Madame Williamson, who was really 
their mother. Each had a bright, transparent com¬ 
plexion and high color, clear, limpid eyes, long eye¬ 
lashes, and the purity of outline which gives such 
brilliancy to the beauties of childhood. The eldest, 
named Louis-Gaston, had black hair, and a brave, 
intrepid eyQ. Everything about him denoted robust 
health, just as his broad, high forehead, intelligently 
rounded, foretold an energetic manhood. He was brisk 
and agile in his movements, a strapping lad, with 
nothing assuming about him, not easily surprised, and 
seeming to reflect on all he saw. His brother, named 
Marie-Gaston, was very fair, though a few locks of 
his hair were beginning to show the auburn color 
of his mother’s. He had also the slender figure, the 
delicate features, and the winning grace so attractive 
in Madame Williamson. He seemed sicklj", his gray 
e3’es had a gentle look, his cheeks were pale; there 
was a good deal of the woman about him. His mother 
still kept him to embroidered collars, long curls, and 
those pretty jackets with frogged fastenings which 
are worn wflth so pleasing an effect, and which betra}’ 
a feminine love of dress. 



La Grenadiere. 


315 


This dainty attire contrasted with the plain jacket 
of the elder brother, over which the plain linen collar 
of his shirt was turned. The trousers, boots, and 
color of the clothes were the same in the two brothers, 
and proclaimed their relationship as much as did their 
physical likeness. Seeing them together, it was im¬ 
possible not to be struck with the care which Louis 
took of Marie. The look he gave him was paternal; 
and Marie, in spite of his childlike heedlessness, 
seemed full of gratitude to his brother. These two 
little flowers, scarcely apart on the same twig, were 
shaken by the same breezes and warmed by the same 
sun-ray; but while one was vigorous and ros}", the 
other was half-etiolated. A word, a look, an inflection 
of the voice sufficed to catch their attention, to make 
them turn their heads and listen, hear an order, a 
request, a suggestion, and obey. Madame Williamson 
made them understand her wishes and her will as though 
there were but one thought among them. 

When they were running or playing before her in 
their walks, gathering a flower, examining an insect, 
her eyes rested upon them with such deep and tender 
emotion that the most indifferent observers were 
touched; sometimes they even stopped to watch the 
smiling children, and saluted the mother with a 
friendly glance. Who, indeed, would not have ad¬ 
mired the exquisite nicety of their garments, the 


316 


La Grenadiere, 


pretty tones of their voices, the grace of their move¬ 
ments, their happy faces, and that instinctive nobility 
which told of careful training from their cradles? 
Those children seemed never to have wept or screamed. 
The mother had an almost electric sense of their wishes 
and their pains, and she calmed them or forestalled 
them ceaselessly. She seemed to dread a plaint from 
her children more than eternal condemnation for her¬ 
self. All things in and about them were to her honor; 
and the picture of their triple life, seeming one and 
the same life, gave birth to vague, alluring visions of 
the joys we dream of tasting in a better world. 

The domestic life of these harmonious beings was in 
keeping with the ideas their outward appearance con¬ 
veyed ; it was orderl3", regular, and simple, as became 
a home where children were educated. The two boys 
rose earl}^ by daybreak, and said a short prayer, taught 
them in infancy, — true w^ords said for seven years on 
their mother’s bed, begun and ended b}" two kisses. 
Then the brothers, trained to that minute care of the 
person so essential to health of bod^" and purity of 
soul, dressed themselves as carefully as a pretty woman 
might have done. The}" neglected nothing, so fearful 
were they of a word of blame, how'ever tenderl}" their 
mother might utter it, — as, for instance, when she said 
at breakfast one morning, “ M}’ dear angels, how did 
you get 3^our nails so black already ? ” 


La Grenadiere, 


317 


After dressing, the pair would go down into the 
garden and shake off the heaviness of the night in its 
dewy freshness, while waiting for the servant to put in 
order the dining-room, where they studied their lessons 
till their mother woke. But from time to time the}" 
peeped and listened to find out if she were awake, 
though forbidden to enter the room before a given 
hour; and this daily irruption, made in defiance of a 
compact, was a delightful moment both to them and to 
their mother. Marie would jump upon the bed and 
throw his arms about his idol, while Louis, kneeling 
beside the pillow, held her hand. Then followed tender 
inquiries like those of a lover, angelic laughter, caresses 
that were passionate and pure, eloquent silence, words 
half-uttered, childish stories interrupted by kisses, begun 
again, always listened to, seldom finished. 

“ Have you studied your lessons?” the mother would 
say, in a gentle voice, ready to pity idleness as a mis¬ 
fortune, but readier still with a tearful glance for the 
one who could say he had done his best. She knew 
those children desired only to satisfy her; they knew 
she lived only for them, — that she led them by the 
wisdom of love and gave them all her thoughts and all 
her time. A marvellous instinct, which is neither rea¬ 
son nor egotism, which we may perhaps call sentiment 
in its first sincerit}', teaches children whether they are 
or are not, the object of exclusive care, and whether 


318 


La Grrenadiere, 


others find happiness in caring for them. Do 3’ou 
truly love them? then the dear creatures, all frankness 
and all justice, are delightfully grateful. They love 
passionately and jealously’; they possess the sweetest 
delicacj’’, they can find the tenderest words ; they confide 
to 3*ou, they trust to 3"ou in all things. Perhaps there 
are no bad children without bad mothers, for the 
affection children feel is always in reply to that they 
receive, to the first caress given to them, to the first 
words the3^ have heard, to the first looks from which 
they have sought for love and life. At that period all 
to them is attraction or repulsion. God has put children 
in the womb of the mother to teach her that she must 
bear them long. 

And 3’et we find some mothers cruelly misunderstood 
by their children; we see sublime maternal tenderness 
con8tantl3" wounded b3^ horrible ingratitude and neg¬ 
lect, — showing how difficult it is to lay down absolute 
principles in matters of feeling. 

In the heart of this mother and in those of her sons 
no one of the thousand ties which could attach them to 
one another was missing. Alone on earth the3" lived a 
united life and understood each other. When Madame 
Williamson was silent the bo3"s said nothing, respectful 
even to the thoughts they could not share. But the 
elder, gifted with a mind that was alread3^ strong, was 
never satisfied with his mother’s assurances that her 


La Grenadiere, 


319 


health was good,* he studied her face with silent un¬ 
easiness, unaware of danger, jet foreboding it when he 
noticed the purple tints round the sunken eyes and 
saw that the hollows deepened and the red patches on 
the face grew more inflamed. Full of true perception, 
when he thought that his brother's games were begin¬ 
ning to tire her he would saj^, “ Come, Marie, let’s go 
and breakfast; I'm hungry.” 

But when he reached the door he would turn back to 
catch the expression on his mother’s face, which alwa3’s 
wore a smile for him, though sometimes tears would start 
from her eyes as a gesture of her boy revealed his exqui¬ 
site feeling, his precocious comprehension of her sorrow. 

The mother was always present at the lessons which 
took place from ten to three o’clock, interrupted at 
midday by the second breakfast, generally taken in the 
garden pavilion. After this meal came a play-hour, 
when the happy mother, the unhappy woman, lay on a 
sofa in the pavilion, whence she could see that sweet 
Touraine, incessantly changing, ceaselessly rejuvenated 
by the varying accidents of light and sky and season. 

The boys ran about the place, climbing the terraces, 
chasing the lizards, themselves as agile; thej" watched 
the seeds, and studied the insects and the flowers, run¬ 
ning constant!}" to their mother with questions. Children 
need no plaj^things in the countiy; the things about 
them are amusement and occupation enough. 


820 


Jja Grenadiere. 


During the lessons Madame Williamson sat in the 
room with her work; she was silent and never looked 
at either masters or pupils, but she listened attentively 
to catch the meaning of the words and know if Louis 
were understanding them, and whether his mind were 
acquiring force. If he interrupted his master with a 
question, that was surely a sign of progress ; then the 
mother’s eyes would brighten, she smiled, and gave the 
boy a look full of hope. She exacted very little of 
Marie; all her anxiety was for the elder, to whom she 
showed a sort of respect, employing her womanl}" and 
motherl}' tact to lift his soul and give him a high sense 
of what he should become. Behind this course was a 
hidden purpose which the child was one day to compre¬ 
hend— and he did comprehend it. After each lesson 
she inquired carefully of the masters what they thought 
of Louis’s progress. She was so kindly and so winning 
that the teachers told her the truth and showed her how 
to make Louis work in directions where they thought 
him wanting. 

Such was their life, uniform but full, — a life where 
work and play, cheerfully mingled, left no opening for 
ennui. Discouragement or anger was impossible, the 
mother’s boundless love made all things easy. She 
had taught her sons discretion by refusing nothing to 
them ; courage, b}^ awarding them just praise; resig¬ 
nation, by showing them its necessity under all cir- 


La Grenadiere, 


321 


cumstances. She developed and strengthened the 
angelic nature within them with the care of a gnai’d- 
ian angel. Sometimes a few tears would moisten her 
e3’es, when, watching them at play, the thought came 
that they had never caused her a moment’s grief. 
She spent delightful hours Ijlng on her rural couch, 
enjoying the fine weather, the broad sheet of water, 
the picturesque country, the voices of her children, 
their merr}" laughs rippling into fresh laughter, and 
their little disputes, which onlj^ evidenced their union, 
and Louis’s fatherly' care of Marie, and the love of both 
for her. 

Thej" all spoke French and English equallj^ well, and 
the mother used both languages in conversing with her 
b03’S. She ruled them by kindness, — hiding nothing, 
but explaining all. She allowed no false idea to gain 
a lodgment in their minds, and no mistaken principle 
to enter their hearts. When Louis wished to read she 
gave him books that were interesting and yet sound, 
true to the facts of life, —lives of famous sailors, bio¬ 
graphies of great men, illustrious captains ; finding in 
such books the occasions to explain to him the world 
and life, to show him the means by which obscure 
persons who had greatness within their souls, coming 
from the lower walks of life and without friends, had 
succeeded in rising to noble destinies. 

Such lessons she gave him in the evening, when 
21 


322 


La Grenadiire. 


Marie, tired with his plaj", was sleeping on her knees 
in the cool silence of a beauteous night, when the 
Loire reflected the heavens. But they increased her 
secret sadness, and ended often in leaving her ex¬ 
hausted, thoughtful, and with her e3’es full of tears. 

“ Mother, why do you cry?” asked Louis, one rich 
June evening, just as the half-tints of a softljMighted 
night were succeeding a warm daj^ 

“M3" son,” she answered, winding her arm around 
the neck of the bo3", whose concealed emotion touched 
her deepl3^, “because the hard lot of Jamera3" Duval, 
who reached distinction without help, is the fate I have 
brought on 3’ou and 3^our brother. Soon, m3^ dear cliild, 
you will be alone in the world, with no one to lean 
on, no protector. I am forced to leave you, still mere 
children ; and yet I think that you, my Louis, know 
enough, and are strong enough to be a guide to Marie. 
I love 3"ou too well not to sufler from such thoughts. 
God grant 3"OU ma3" not some day curse me.” 

“ Why should I curse 3"ou, mother?” 

“ Some da3’’, m3" child,” she answered, kissing his 
brow, “ 3"ou will realize that I have done 3"ou wrong. 
I abandon 3"ou, here, without means, without fortune, 
without” — she hesitated — “without a father,” she 
added. 

Tears choked her voice; she gentl3" pushed her son 
away from her, and he, understanding b3" a sort of 


La Qrenadiere, 


323 


intuition that she wished to be alone, carried the 
sleeping Marie away with him. An hour later, when 
his brother was in bed, Louis returned with cautious 
steps to the pavilion where his mother was still lying. 
He heard her call, in a voice that sounded sweetly on 
his ear, — 

“ Louis, come ! ” 

The boy flung himself into his mother’s arms, and 
thej^ kissed each other almost convulsively. 

“ Dearest,” he said, for he often gave her that name, 
finding even that too feeble to express his tenderness, 
“ dearest, why do you fear that you will die? ” 

“ I am very ill, my poor loved angel,” she said. “ I 
grow weaker daily; my disease is incurable, and I 
know it.” 

“ What disease is it?” 

“ I must forget; and you, j’ou must never know the 
cause of my death.” 

The child was silent for a moment, glancing furtively 
at his mother whose eyes were raised to heaven, watch¬ 
ing the clouds. Moment of tender melancholy ! Louis 
did not believe in his mother’s approaching death, but 
he felt her griefs without understanding them. He 
respected her long revery. Were he less a child he 
might have read upon that sacred face thoughts of 
repentance mingled with happ}" memories, — the whole 
of a woman’s life; a careless girlhood, a cold marriage, 


324 


La Grenadiere. 


a terrible passion, flowers born of a tempest, hurled by 
the lightning to the depths of that abyss from which 
there is no return. 

“ My precious mother,” said Louis at last, “ wh}^ do 
you hide your suflTerings from me ? ” 

“My son,” she answered, “we should always hide 
our troubles from the eyes of strangers, and show to 
them a smiling face; we should never speak to others 
of ourselves, but think only of them. Those things, if 
we practise them in our homes, will make others happj'. 
Some day you, too, will suffer deepl3^ Then remember 
3’our poor mother, who died before your e\"es hiding 
her griefs, and smiling for you ; it will give j’ou courage 
to bear the woes of life.” 

Smothering her feelings, she tried to show her boy 
the mechanism of existence, the just value, the ground¬ 
work, and the stability of wealth; the power of social 
relations ; the honorable means of amassing money for 
the wants of life ; and the necessity" of education. Then 
she revealed to him one cause of her sadness and her 
tears, and told him that on the morrow of her death he 
and Marie would be destitute, possessing only a trifling 
sum of mone}’-, and with no other protector than God. 

“ What haste I must make to learn ! ” cried the bo}’, 
glancing at his mother, with a deep, 3’et plaintive look. 

“Ah, I am happ3M ” she exclaimed, covering her 
son with tears and kisses. “He has understood me! 


La Grenadiire. 


325 


Louis,” she added, “j^ou will be your brother’s guard¬ 
ian, will 3'ou not? you promise me? You are no longer 
a child.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “I promise; but you will not 
die yet? Say 3"ou will not! ” 

“Poor children!” she said, “ m}^ love for 3’ou de¬ 
tains me ; and this country is so beautiful, the air is so 
reviving, perhaps — ” 

“I shall love Touraine more than ever now,” said 
the lad, with emotion. 

From that daj^ Madame Williamson, foreseeing her 
end, talked to her eldest son of his future lot. Louis, 
who had now completed his fourteenth j^ear, became 
more thoughtful, applied himself better, and cared less 
for pla3". Whether it were that be persuaded Marie to 
read, instead of caring onl}* for games of pla}’, it is certain 
that the two boj’s made much less noise in the sunken 
paths and in the terraces and gardens of La Grenadiere. 
They conformed their life to the sad condition of their 
mother, whose face grew paler day by day, with yellow 
tints, the lines deepening night after night. 

In the month of August, six months after the arrival 
of the little family", all was changed at La Grenadiere. 
The pretty house, once so ga}^ so lively, had grown 
sad and silent, and its occupants seldom left the prem¬ 
ises. Madame Williamson had scarcely" strength to 
walk to the bridge. Louis, whose imagination had 


326 


La Grenadiere. 


suddenly developed, and who had now identified himself, 
as it were, with his mother, guessing her weariness, 
invented pretexts to avoid a walk which he felt was too 
long for her. Happy couples passing along the road to 
Saint-Cyr and the groups of pedestrians below upon the 
levee saw, in the warm evenings, the pale, emaciated 
woman in deep mourning, near her end yet still brilliant, 
pacing like a phantom along the terraces. Great suffer¬ 
ings are divined. Even the cottage of the vine-dresser 
became silent. Sometimes the peasant and his wife 
and children were grouped about their door, Fanny, the 
old English servant, would be washing near the well, 
Madame Williamson and her boys sitting in the pavilion, 
and 3’et no sound was heard in the once ga}’ gardens, 
and all e3’es turned, when the djdng woman did not see 
them, to contemplate her. She was so good, so thought¬ 
ful for others, so worthy of respect from all who ap¬ 
proached her! 

Since the beginning of the autumn, which is alwaj’s 
fine and brilliant in Touraine, and which, with its bene¬ 
ficent infiuences, its fruits, its grapes, did somewhat 
prolong the mothers life beyond the natural term of 
her hidden malady, she had thought of nothing but her 
children, and rejoiced over every hour she had them 
with her as though it were her last. 

From the month of June to the month of September 
Louis studied at night without his mother’s knowledge 


La G-renadiere, 


327 


and made enormous progress; he was already in the 
equations of the second degree in algebra, had learned 
descriptive geometry, and drew admirably well. He 
was, in fact, prepared to pass an entrance examination 
to the Nicole Polytechnique. Occasional!}' in the even¬ 
ings he went to walk on the bridge of Tours, where he 
had met a lieutenant of the navy on half-pa}^; the 
manly face, the decorated breast, the hearty bearing of 
this sailor of the Empire, affected his imagination. The 
lieutenant, on the other hand, took a fanc}’ to the lad 
whose eyes sparkled with energy. Louis, eager for 
military tales and liking to ask questions, w'alked about 
with the old salt and listened to him. The lieutenant 
had a friend and companion in an infantry colonel; 
young Gaston could therefore hear of the two lives, 
militar}' and naval, life in camp and life on seaboard, 
and he questioned the two officers incessantly. 

After a time, entering into their hard lot and their 
rough experience, he suddenly asked his mother for 
permission to roam about the canton to amuse himself. 
As the astonished masters had told Madame Williamson 
that her son was studying too hard, she acceded to his 
request with extreme pleasure. The boy took immense 
walks. Wishing to harden himself to fatigue he climbed 
the highest trees with agility, he learned to swim, and 
he sat up working at night. He was no longer the 
same child ; he was a 3'oung man, on whose face the sun 


328 


La Grenadiere, 


had cast its brown tones, bringing out the lines of an 
already deep purpose. 

The month of October came, and Madame Williamson 
could rise onl}" at midday, when the sun-rays, reflected 
from the Loire and concentrated on the terraces, pro¬ 
duced the same equable warmth at La Grenadiere that 
prevails on warm, moist days around the Bay of Naples, 
— a circumstance which leads physicians to recommend 
Touraine. On such da3^s she would sit beneath an 
evergreen, and her sons no longer left her. Studies 
ceased, the masters were dismissed. Children and 
mother wished to live in one another’s hearts, without a 
care, without distractions from the outside. No tears 
were shed, no happy laughter heard. The elder, lying 
on the grass beside his mother, was like a lover at her 
feet, which he sometimes kissed. Marie, restless and 
uneasy, gathered flowers, which he brought to her with 
a sad air, rising on tiptoe to take from her lips the kiss 
of a 3"Oung girl. That pallid woman with the large 
black eyes, lying exhausted, slow in all her motions, 
making no plaint, smiling at her two children so full of 
health, so living, was indeed a touching spectacle amid 
the melancholy glories of autumn, with its yellowing 
leaves, its half-bared trees, the softened light of the sun 
and the white clouds of a Touraine sky. 

The day came when Madame Williamson was ordered 
by the doctor not to leave her room. Daily it was 














La Grenadiere, 


329 


adorned with the flowers she loved best, and her chil¬ 
dren sta^’ed there. Earl}' in November she opened her 
piano for the last time. A Swiss landscape hung above 
it. Beside the window the brothers, with their arms 
around each other, showed her their mingled heads. 
Her eyes moved constantly from her children to the 
landscape, from the landscape to her children. Her 
face colored, her fingers ran with passion along the 
ivory notes. It was her last fete, a fete hidden from 
others, a fete celebrated in the depths of her soul by 
the genius of memory. 

The doctor came and bade her keep her bed. The 
sentence was received by her and by her sons in a 
silence that was almost stupid. 

When the physician went away she said: ‘ ‘ Louis, 
take me on the terrace that I may see the country once 
more.” 

At these words, simpl}’ said, the lad gave her his arm 
and took her to the centre of the terrace. There her 
eyes sought, involuntarily perhaps, the heavens rather 
than the earth; it would have been difficult at that 
moment to sa}' where was the finer landscape, for the 
clouds represented vaguely the majestic glaciers of the 
Alps. Her brow contracted violently, her e3’es took 
an expression of remorse and sorrow, she caught the 
hands of her children and pressed them to her beating 
heart. 


830 


La G-reriadiere, 


“ Father and mother unknown! she cried, casting 
an agonized look upon them. “Poor children! what 
will become of 3’ou? And when 3'ou are men, what 
stern account will 3’ou not demand of me for m3’ life 
and 3’ours?” 

She pushed her children from her, placed both elbows 
on the balustrade, hid her face in her hands, and re¬ 
mained for a few moments alone with her soul, fearing 
to be seen. When she roused herself from her grief 
she saw Louis and Marie kneeling beside her like two 
angels ; they watched her looks and both smiled at 
her. 

“ Could I but take those smiles with me ! ” she said, 
dr3’ing her e3’es. 

She returned to the house and went to her bed, to 
leave it no more until the3^ placed her in her coffin. 

Eight da3’s went b3’, each da3’ like the rest. The old 
waiting-woman and Louis took turns to watch that bed 
at night, their e3’es fixed on the patient. It was the 
same drama, profoundly tragic, which is played at all 
hours and in all families where they dread that every 
breath ma3’ be the last of some adored member. On 
the fifth day of this fatal week the doctor proscribed 
flowers. One b3' one the illusions of life were taken 
from her. 

After that day Louis and Marie found fire beneath 
their lips when the3’ kissed their mother’s brow. At 


La Grenadiere. 


881 


last, on the Saturday night, she could bear no noise, and 
her room was left in disorder. That necessary neglect 
marked the beginning of the death of this woman, once 
so fastidious, so enamoured of elegance. Louis no 
longer left her even for a moment. 

During the night of Sunday, in the midst of deepest 
silence, Louis, who thought her dozing, saw by the 
light of the lamp a white, moist hand put back the 
curtain. 

“My son,” she said. 

The tones of the dying woman were so solemn that 
their power, proceeding from her troubled soul, reacted 
violentl}^ on her child; he felt a burning heat in the 
marrow of his bones. 

“ What is it, mother?” 

“ Listen to me. To-morrow all will be over. We 
shall see each other no more. To-morrow you will be 
a man, my child. I am obliged to make certain ar¬ 
rangements which must remain a secret between 3’ou 
and me. Take the ke}" of m3' little table. You have it? 
Open the drawer. You will find on the left two sealed 
papers. On one is marked Louis, on the other, Marie.” 

“ I have them, mother.” 

“ M3' darling son, they are the legal records of 3'our 
birth, of great importance to 3'ou. Give them to m3' 
poor old Fann3', who will take care of them for 3'ou, and 
return them to you when needed. Now,” she continued. 


832 


La Grenadiere, 


“ look again in the same place and see if there is not 
another paper on which I have written a few lines?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

And Louis began to read ; “Marie Augusta 'William' 
son, born at — ” 

“ That will do,” she said quickl}^, “ Don’t go on. M3’ 
son, when I am dead, give that paper also to Fann}' and 
tell her to take it to the ma3’or’s office at Saint-C}’!’, 
where the}" will need it to draw up the record of my 
death. Now bring what 3'ou require to write a letter 
at m}^ dictation.” 

When she saw that her son was read}" and that he 
turned to her as if to listen, she said, in a calm voice, 
dictating: “Sir, 3"our wife. Lad}" Brandon, died at 
Saint-Cyr, near Tours, department of the Indre-et-Loire. 
She forgave you. Sign it — ” 

She stopped, hesitating and agitated. 

“ Do you feel worse? ” asked Louis. 

“ Sign it, ‘ Louis Gaston.’” 

She sighed, then continued: “Seal the letter and 
direct it to ‘ The Earl of Brandon, Brandon Square, 
Plyde Park, London, England.’ Have you written it? 
Very good,” she said. “ On the day of my death you 
must mail that letter from Tours. Now,” she continued, 
after a pause, “ bring my little pocket-book — you know 
it — and come close to me, dear child. In it,” she said, 
when Louis had returned to her, “ are twelve thousand 


La Grenadiere, 


333 


francs. They are rightfully yours, alas! You would 
have had far more had your father — ” 

“ My father ! exclaimed the lad, “ where is he? ” 

“ Dead,” she replied, laying a finger on her lips, — 
“dead to save my honor and my life.’’ 

She raised her eyes to heaven ; she would have wept 
had she still had tears for sorrows “ Louis,” she said, 

‘ ‘ swear to me on this pillow that you will forget all that 
you have written, and all that I have said to 3^011.” 
“Yes mother.” 

“ Kiss me, dear angel.” 

She made a long pause as if to gather courage from 
God, and to limit her words to the strength that was 
left to her. 

“ Listen,” she said at last. “ These twelve thousand 
francs are 3"Our whole fortune; 3^ou must keep them 
upon 3’our person, because when I am dead, the legal 
authorities will come here and put seals on everything. 
Nothing will belong to you, not even your mother. 
Poor orphans! all you can do is to go away — God 
knows where. I have provided for Fanny; she will 
have three hundred francs a 3’ear and sta3" in Tours. 
But what will 3"Ou do with yourself and 3’our brother ? ” 
She raised herself in the bed and looked at the brave 
boy, who, with great drops on his forehead, pale from 
emotion, his e3^es half-veiled in tears, stood erect 
before her. 


334 


La G-renadiere. 


“Mother,” he replied in a deep voice, “I have 
thought of it. I shall take Marie to the college of 
Tours. I shall give ten thousand francs to old Fanny 
and tell her to put them in safety, and to watch over my 
brother. Then, with the rest, I will go to Brest, and 
enter the navy as an apprentice. While Marie is get¬ 
ting his education I shall be promoted lieutenant. 
Mother, die easy; I shall be rich; I will put our boy 
into the ^cole Polytechnique, and he shall follow his 
bent.” 

A flash of joy came from the half-quenched ej^es of 
the mother ; two tears rolled down her burning cheeks ; 
then a great sigh escaped her lips. She barelj^ escaped 
dying at that moment from the joy of finding the soul 
of the father in that of her son, now suddenly trans¬ 
formed into a man. 

“Angel from heaven!” she said, weeping, “you 
have healed my sorrows with those words. Ah! I can 
die now. He is my son,” she added; “I have made, 
I have trained, a man.” 

She raised her hands in the air and clas^Ded them, as 
if to express a boundless jo^^; then she lay back on the 
pillows. 

“ Mother, you are turning white,” cried the boy. 

“ Fetch a priest,” she answered, in a dying voice. 

Louis woke old Fanny, who ran in terror to the 
parsonage of Saint-Cyr. 


La Grenadiere* 


335 


Earl}" in the morning Madame Williamson received 
the sacraments in presence of her children, with old 
Fanny, and the family of the vine-dresser, simple folk, 
now part of the family, kneeling round her. The silver 
cross borne by a humble choir boy, a village choir boy ! 
was held before the bed; an old priest administered 
the viaticum to the dying mother. The viaticum ! sub¬ 
lime word, idea more sublime than the word, which the 
apostolic religion of the Roman Church alone employs. 

“This woman has suffered much,” said the curate 
in his simple language. 

Madame Williamson heard no longer; but her eyes 
remained fastened on her children. All present, in 
mortal terror, listened in the deep silence to the 
breathing of the dying woman as it slackened and 
grew slower. At intervals, a deep sigh showed that 
life was still continuing the inward struggle. At last, 
the mother breathed no longer. Those present wept, 
excepting Marie, too young, poor child, to be aware 
of death. Fanny and the vine-dresser’s wife closed 
the eyes of the once exquisite creature, whose beauty 
reappeared in all its glory. They sent away those 
present, took the furniture from the room, placed the 
body of the departed in its shroud, lighted the wax- 
tapers around the bed, arranged the basin of holy 
water, the branch of box, and the crucifix, after the 
manner of that region of country, closed the blinds 


336 


La G-renadiere, 


and drew the curtains. Then the vicar came and 
passed the night in praj^er with Louis, who would 
not leave his mother. 

The funeral took place Tuesday morning ; old Fanny, 
the children, and the vine-dresser alone followed the 
bod}" of a woman whose beauty, wit, and grace had 
given her in other days a European fame; and whose 
funeral would have been pompously heralded in the 
newspapers of London, as an aristocratic solemnity, 
had she not committed a tender crime, a crime always 
punished on this earth, perhaps to allow the pardoned 
angel to enter heaven. When the earth fell on his 
mother’s coffin, Marie wept, comprehending then that 
he should see her no more. 

A simple wooden cross stands above her grave and 
bears these words, given by the curate of Saint-Cyr. 

HERE LIES 

A SORROWFUL WOMAN. 

SHE DIED AGED THIRTY-SIX, 

Bearing the name Augusta in Heaven. 

Pray for her. 

When all was over the children returned to La 
Grenadiere to cast a last look upon their home; then, 
holding each other by the hand, they prepared to 


La Grenadiere* 837 

leave it with Fann}’, making the vine-dresser respon¬ 
sible to the authorities. 

At the last moment the old waiting-worn an called 
Louis to the steps of the well, and said to him apart: 

“ Monsieur Louis, here is madame’s ring.” 

The boy wept, — moved at the sight of a living memo¬ 
rial of his dead mother. In his strong self-command 
he had forgotten this last dut3\ He kissed the old 
woman. Then all three went down the sunken path¬ 
way’, and down the flight of steps, and on to Tours 
without once looking back. 

‘‘ Mamma used to stand here,” said Marie, when they 
reached the bridge. 

Fanny had an old cousin, a retired dressmaker, 
living in the rue de la Guerche. There she took the 
lads, thinking thej" could all live together. But Louis 
explained his plans, gave her ^ Marie’s certificate of 
birth and the ten thousand francs, and the next da}’, 
accompanied by the old woman, he took his brother 
to the school. He told the principal the facts of the 
case, but very briefly, and went away, taking his 
brother with him to the gate. There he tenderly and 
solemnly told him of their loneliness in the world and 
gave him counsel for the future, looked at him silently 
a moment, kissed him, looked at him again, wiped 
away a tear, and went away, looking back again and 
again at his brother, left alone at the college gate. 


338 


La G-renadiere. 


A month later Louis Gaston was an apprentice on 
board a government ship, leaving the Rochefort roads. 
Leaning against the shrouds of the corvette “ Iris,” he 
watched the coasts of France as they dropped below 
the blue horizon. Soon lie saw himself alone, lost in 
the midst of ocean, as he was in the midst of life. 

“Mustn’t cry, 3’oung fellow; there’s a God for all 
the world,” said an old seaman, in his gruff voice, both 
harsh and kind. 

The lad thanked him with an intrepid look. Then 
he bowed his head and resigned himself to a sailor’s 
life, for — was he not a father? 

1832. 


A DOUBLE LIFE. 












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A DOUBLE LIFE. 


To Madame la Comtesse Louise de Turheim, 

As A MARK OP REMEMBRANCE AND AFFECTIONATE RESPECT 
FROM HER HUMBLE SERVANT, 

De Balzac. 


L 


THE SECOND LIFE. 

The rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, formerly one of 
the darkest and most tortuous streets of the old quar¬ 
ter of Paris which encircles the H 6 tel-de-Ville, wound 
round the little gardens of the prefecture till it ended 
in the rue du Martroi at the angle of an old wall, now 
pulled down. Here could be seen the turnstile to 
which the street owed its name, a relic of the past 
that was not destroyed until 1823 , when the city of 
Paris caused to be constructed on the site of a little 
garden belonging to the H 6 tel-de-Ville a splendid 
ball-room for the fete given to the Due d’Angouleme 
on his return from Spain. 

The widest part of the rue du Tourniquet was near 
its junction with the rue de la Tixeranderie, where 
it was only five feet wide. Consequently, in rainy 
weather the blackened water of the gutter washed the 
feet of the old houses, bringing along with it the filth 
and refuse deposited by each household at the various 



342 


A Double Life, 


posts along the street. The carts for the removal of 
such rubbish could not enter the narrow way, and the 
dwellers thereon reckoned upon the storms of heaven 
to cleanse their ever-muddy street — though it never 
could be clean. When the summer sun struck ver¬ 
tically down, a line of gold, sharp as the blade of a 
sabre, illuminated momentarily the darkness of the 
street, but without drying the perpetual dampness 
which reigned from the ground-floor to the next floor 
of these dark and silent houses. 

The inhabitants, who lighted their lamps at five 
o’clock in the month of June, never put them out in 
winter. Even to-day, if some courageous pedestrian 
ventures to go from the Marais to the quays by taking, 
at the end of the rue du Chaume, the several streets 
named L’Homme Arme, Des Billettes, and Des Deux- 
Portes, which lead into that of the Tourniquet-Saint- 
Jean, he will fancy he has been walking through a 
crypt or cellar. 

Nearly all the streets of the old Paris resembled 
this damp and sombre labyrinth, where antiquaries 
can still find several historical singularities to admire. 
For instance, when the house which stood at the cor¬ 
ner of the rue du Tourniquet and the rue de la Tixer- 
anderie still existed, observers would have noticed 
two heavy iron rings built into the wall, a remnant of 
the chains which the watchman of the quarter put up 
each night as a measure of public safety. 

This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been 
built with precautions which fully proved the unhealth¬ 
iness of these old dwellings; for, in order to sweeten 
the ground-floor, the walls of the cellar were raised 


A Double Life* 


343 


fully two feet above the level of the soil, which neces¬ 
sitated a rise of three steps in order to enter the house. 
The door-casing described a semicircular arch, the 
apex of which was adorned with the carving of a 
woman’s head and sundry arabesques, much injured 
by time. Three windows, the sills of which were 
about on a level with a man’s head, belonged to a 
small apartment on the ground-floor looking on the 
rue du Tourniquet. These windows were protected by 
strong iron bars placed far apart, ending in a round 
projection like those of a baker’s grating. 

If any inquisitive pedestrian had cast his eyes upon 
the two rooms of this apartment in the daytime, he 
could have seen nothing within them; a July sun was 
needed to distinguish in the second room two beds 
draped with green serge under the panelled ceiling of 
an old alcove. But in the afternoons, toward three 
o’clock, when a lamp was lighted, it was possible to 
see through the window of the flrst room an old woman 
sitting on a stool at the corner of a fireplace, where she 
was, at that hour, stirring something in a chafing-dish 
which resembled those stews that Parisian portresses 
know so well how to concoct. A few kitchen utensils 
hanging on the wall at the end of this room could be 
seen in the half-light. An old table, standing on 
three legs and devoid of linen, held knives and forks 
and pewter plates, and, presently, the dish which the 
old crone was cooking. Three miserable chairs fur¬ 
nished the room, which served the inhabitants for 
kitchen and dining-room. Over the fireplace was a 
fragment of mirror, a tinder-box, three glasses, some 
sulphur matches, and a large white pot, much cracked. 


844 


A Double Life. 


The tiled floor of the hearth, the utensils, the fireplace, 
were pleasing to the eye from the evident spirit of 
neatness and economy which reigned in that cold, dark 
home. 

The pale and wrinkled face of the old woman was in 
keeping with the gloom of the street and the mouldi¬ 
ness of the building. One might have thought, to see 
her seated in her chair when doing nothing, that she 
stuck to the house as a snail to its shell. Her face, 
in which a vague expression of malice underlay an 
assumed good-humor, was topped by a flat tulle cap, 
which scarcely covered her white hair; her large gray 
eyes were as still as the street, and the many wrinkles 
on her skin might be compared to the cracks and 
crevices of the walls. Whether she was born to 
poverty, or whether she had fallen from some better 
estate, she now seemed long resigned to her melan¬ 
choly existence. From sunrise till evening, except 
while preparing the meals, or, basket in hand, she 
went out for provisions, this old creature spent her 
time in the adjoining room, before the third window 
and opposite to a young girl. 

At all hours of the day this young girl, sitting in an 
old arm-chair covered with red velvet, her head bent 
down over an embroidery-frame, worked industriously. 
Her mother had a green tambour-frame on her lap and 
seemed to be making tulle; but her fingers moved the 
bobbins stiffly, and her sight was evidently failing, 
for her nose, of three-score years and over, bore a pair 
of those old-fashioned spectacles which hold to the tips 
of the nostrils according to the force with which they 
are pinched on. At night, these two laborious creatures 


A Double Life, 


345 


placed a lamp between them; the light of which, fall¬ 
ing through two glass globes filled with water, threw 
a strong ray upon their work, which enabled the old 
woman to see the looser strands of the bobbins of her 
tambour, and the young girl the more delicate parts of 
the pattern she was embroidering. 

The curve of the iron bars had enabled the girl to 
put on the sill of the window a long wooden box 
filled with earth; in which were vegetating sweet-peas, 
nasturtiums, a sickly honeysuckle, and a few convol¬ 
vuli whose weakly tendrils were clinging to the bars. 
These etiolated plants produced a few pale flowers; 
another feature strangely in keeping, which mingled 
I scarcely know what of sweetness and of sadness in 
the picture, framed by the window, of those toiling 
figures. A mere glance at that interior would have 
given the most self-absorbed pedestrian a perfect 
image of the life led by the work-women of Paris; 
for it was evident that the girl lived solely by her 
needle. Many persons reaching the turnstile had won¬ 
dered how any young creature living in that noisome 
place could have kept the bright colors of youth. The 
lively imagination of a student on his way to the 
“pays latin ” might have compared this dark and 
vegetative life to that of ivy draping a cold stone¬ 
wall, or to that of peasants born to toil, who labor 
and die ignored by the world they have contributed to 
feed. A man of property said to himself as he looked 
at the house with the eye of an owner: — 

“What would become of those two women if em¬ 
broidery should go out of fashion ? 

Among the persons whose duty took them at fixed 


346 


A Double Life, 


hours through this narrow way, either to the Hotel de 
Ville or to the Palais, some might perhaps have been 
found, whose interest in the sight would take a more 
selfish view of it; some widower, perhaps, or some 
elderly Adonis might have thought that the evident 
distress of the mother and daughter would make the 
innocent work-girl a cheap and easy bargain. Or per¬ 
haps some worthy clerk with a salary of twelve hun¬ 
dred francs a year, the daily witness of the girl’s 
industrious ardor, might have reckoned from that the 
purity of her life and have dreamed of uniting one 
obscure life to another obscure life, one plodding toil 
to another as laborious, — bringing at any rate the arm 
of a man to sustain existence, and a peaceful love, 
colorless as the flowers in the window. 

Such vague hopes did at times brighten the dull 
gray eyes of the old mother. In the morning, after 
their humble breakfast, she would take her tambour- 
frame (more for appearances, it would seem, than for 
actual work, because she laid down her spectacles on 
the table beside her) and proceeded to watch from 
half-past eight to about ten o’clock all the habitual 
passers through the street at that hour. She noted 
their glances; made observations on their demeanor, 
their dress, their countenances; she seemed to bargain 
with them for her daughter, so eagerly did her keen 
eyes seek to open communications, by manoeuvres like 
those behind the scenes of a theatre. To her this 
morning review was indeed a play; perhaps it was 
her only pleasure. 

The daughter seldom raised her head: modesty, or 
perhaps the painful sense of poverty, kept her eyes 


A Double Life, 


347 


closely fixed upon her work; so that sometimes, in 
order to make her show her face to a passer in the 
street, her mother would give a cry of surprise. A 
clerk with a new overcoat, or an habitual passer 
appearing with a woman on his arm might then have 
beheld the slightly turned-up nose of the little work- 
girl, her rosy mouth, and her gray eyes, sparkling 
with life in spite of her crushing toil. Those wakeful, 
laborious nights were only shown by the more or less 
white circle beneath the eyes on the fresh, pure skin 
above the cheek-bones. The poor young thing seemed 
born for love and gayety, — for love, which had 
painted above her rounded eyelids two perfect arches, 
and had given her such a forest of chestnut hair that 
she might have hidden her whole person under its 
impenetrahjls veil; for gayety, which moved her ex¬ 
pressive nostrils, and made two dimples in her glow¬ 
ing cheeks, — for gayety, that flower of hope, which 
gave her strength to look without faltering at the 
barren path of life before her. 

The beautiful hair of the girl was always carefully 
arranged. Like all other work-women of Paris, she 
thought her toilet complete when she had braided 
and smoothed her hair and had twirled into circles the 
two little locks on either side of the temples, the effect 
of which was to set off the whiteness of her skin. 
The way her hair grew upon her head was so full of 
grace, the bistre line clearly defined upon her neck 
gave so charming an idea of her youth and its attrac¬ 
tions, that an observer beholding her as she bent over 
her work, not raising her head at any noise, would 
have put down such apparent unconsciousness to 
coquetry. 


343 


A Double Life. 


“Caroline, there’s a new regular man! none of the 
old ones compare with him.” 

These words, said in a low voice by the mother one 
morning in the month of August, 1815 , conquered, 
apparently, the indifference of the girl, for she looked 
into the street; but the new man was nearly out of 
sight. 

“Which way did he go? ” she asked. 

“He’ll be back, no doubt, about four o’clock. I 
shall see him coming and I ’ll kick your foot. I’m 
certain he ’ll come back, for it is now three days since 
he took to coming through the street. But he is n’t 
regular as to time. The first day he came at six, next 
day it was four, yesterday five. I am sure I have 
seen him at some time or other, elsewhere. I dare say 
he’s a clerk at the prefecture who has gone to live 
in the Marais— Oh, look here!” she added, after 
glancing into the street, “our monsieur with the brown 
coat has taken to a wig! Heavens! how it does change 
him!” 

The monsieur with the brown coat must have been 
the last of the habitues who formed the daily proces¬ 
sion, for the old mother now put on her spectacles, 
resumed her work with a sigh, and looked at her 
daughter with so singular an expression that Lavater 
himself would have been puzzled to anal3"ze it, — 
admiration, gratitude, a sort of hope for better things, 
mingled with the pride of possessing so pretty a 
daughter. 

That evening, about four o’clock, the old woman 
pushed the girl’s foot, and Caroline raised her head 
in time to see the new actor whose periodical passing 


A Double Life, 


349 


was now to enliven the scene of their lives. Tall, 
thin, pale, and dressed in black, the man, who was 
about forty years old, had something solemn in his 
gait and demeanor. When his tawny, piercing eye 
met the curious glance of the old woman, it made 
her tremble; and she fancied he had the gift, or the 
habit, of reading hearts. Certainly his first aspect 
was chilling as the air itself of that gloomy street. 

Was the cadaverous, discolored complexion of that 
haggard face the result of excessive toil, or the 
product of enfeebled health? This problem was solved 
by the old mother in a score of different ways. But 
the next day, Caroline divined at once that the 
wrinkled brow bore signs of long-continued men¬ 
tal suffering. The slightly hollowed cheeks of the 
stranger bore an imprint of that seal with which mis¬ 
fortune marks its vassals, as if to leave them the con¬ 
solation of recognizing one another with fraternal eye, 
and uniting together to resist it. 

The warmth of the weather happened at this moment 
to be so great, and the stranger was so absent-minded, 
that he omitted to put on his hat while passing through 
the unhealthy street. Caroline then noticed the stern 
aspect given to the face by the cut of the hair, which 
stood up from his forehead like a brush. Though the 
girl’s eyes were first brightened by innocent curiosity, 
they took a tender expression of sympathy and pity 
as the stranger passed on, like the last mourner in a 
funeral procession. 

The strong, but not pleasing, impression felt by 
Caroline at the sight of this man resembled none of 
the sensations which the other habitual passers had 


350 


A Double Life, 


conveyed to her. For the first time in her life her 
compassion was aroused for another than her mother 
and herself. She made no reply to the fanciful conjec¬ 
tures which furnished food for the irritating loquacity 
of the old woman, hut silently drew her long needle 
above and below the tulle in her frame; she regretted 
that she had not seen more of the unknown man, and 
w^aited until the morrow to make up her mind more 
decisively about him. For the first time, too, a passer 
beneath the window had suggested reflections to her 
mind. Usually she replied with a quiet smile to the 
various suppositions of her mother, who was always 
in hopes of flnding a protector for her child among 
these strangers. If such ideas, imprudently expressed, 
awoke no evil thoughts in the girl’s mind, we must 
attribute Caroline’s indifference to the cruelly hard 
work which consumed the forces of her precious youth, 
and must infallibly change ere long the limpid light 
of her eyes and ravish from those fair cheeks the 
tender color which still brightened them. 

For two whole months the “black monsieur” — 
such was the name they gave him — passed through the 
street almost daily, but capriciously as to time. The 
old woman often saw him at night when he had not 
passed in the morning; also he never returned at the 
fixed hours of other employees, who served as clocks 
to Madame Crochard, and never, since the first day 
when his glance had inspired the old mother with a 
sort of terror, had his eyes appeared to take notice of 
the picturesque group of the two female gnomes, — an 
indifference which piqued Madame Crochard who was 
not pleased to see her “black monsieur ” gravely pre- 


A Double Life, 


351 


occupied, walking with his eyes on the ground or 
looking straight in front of him, as if he were trying 
to read the future in the damp mists of the rue du 
Tourniquet. 

However, one morning toward the last of Septem¬ 
ber, the pretty head of Caroline Crochard stood out so 
brilliantly on the dark background of her dingy cham¬ 
ber, and she looked so fresh among her spindling 
flowers and the sparse foliage that twined about the 
bars of the window, — the scene, in short, presented 
so many contrasts of light and shade, of white and 
rose, blending so well with the muslin the girl was 
embroidering and the tones of the old velvet chair 
in which she sat, — that the unknown pedestrian did 
look attentively at the effects of this living picture. 
Madame Crochard, weary of the indifference of her 
black gentleman, had, in truth, taken the step of 
making such a clatter with her reels and bobbins that 
the gloomy, thoughtful stranger was perhaps com¬ 
pelled by this unusual noise to look up at the 
window. 

He exchanged one glance with Caroline, rapid, it is 
true, but in it their souls came slightly in contact, and 
they each were conscious of a presentiment that they 
should think of one another. That evening when the 
stranger returned, about four o’clock, Caroline distin¬ 
guished the sound of his step upon the pavement, and 
when they looked at each other they did so with a 
species of premeditation; the eyes of the stranger 
were brightened with an expression of benevolence, 
and he smiled, while Caroline blushed. The old 
mother watched them both with a satisfied air. 


352 


A Double Life, 


After that memorable morning the black monsieur 
passed through the rue du Tourniquet twice every day, 
with a few exceptions which the two women noted; 
they judged, from the irregularity of his hours of 
return that he was neither so quickly released nor so 
strictly punctual as a subaltern clerk would be. * 

During the first three winter months Caroline and 
the stranger saw each other twice a day for the length 
of time which it took him to walk the distance fianked 
by the door and the three windows of the house. 
Daily this brief interview took on more and more a 
character of benevolent intimacy, until it ended in 
something that was almost fraternal. Caroline and 
the stranger seemed from the first to understand each 
other; and then, by dint of examining one another’s 
faces a deeper knowledge of their characters came 
about. The meeting became a sort of visit which the 
stranger paid to Caroline; if, by chance, her black 
monsieur passed without giving her the half-formed 
smile on his eloquent lips or the friendly glance of his 
brown eyes, something was lacking to her day. She 
was like those old men to whom the reading of their 
newspaper becomes such a pleasure that if some acci¬ 
dent delays it they are wholly upset at missing the 
printed sheet which helps them for an instant to cheat 
the void of their dreary existence. 

These fugitive meetings soon had, both to Caroline 
and to the unknown man, the interest and charm of 
familiar conversation between friends. The young 
girl could no more conceal from the intelligent eye 
of her silent friend an anxiety, an illness, a sad 
thought, than he could hide from her the presence in 


A Double Life, 


353 


his mind of some painful preoccupation. “Something 
troubled him yesterday,” was a thought that often 
came into the girl’s heart as she noticed a strained 
look on the face of her black gentleman. “Oh! he 
must have been Working too hard! ” was another ex¬ 
clamation caused by other signs and shadows that 
Caroline had learned to distinguish. 

The stranger, on his side, seemed to know when the 
girl had spent her Sunday in finishing a lace dress, in 
the design of which he felt an interest. He saw how the 
pretty face darkened as the rent-day came round; he 
knew when Caroline had been sitting up all night; 
but more especially did he notice how the sad thoughts 
now beginning to tarnish the freshness and the gayety 
of that young face were dissipated little by little as 
their unspoken acquaintance increased. 

When winter dried the foliage and the tendrils of 
the puny garden, and the window was closed, a smile 
that was softly malicious came to the stranger’s lips 
as he saw the bright light in the room casting Caro¬ 
line’s reflection through the panes. An evident parsi¬ 
mony as to fire, and the reddened noses of the two 
women, revealed to him the indigence of the little 
household; but if a pained compassion was reflected 
in his eyes, Caroline proudly undermined it with a 
feigned gayety. 

But all this while the sentiments that were budding 
in their hearts were buried there, and no event hap¬ 
pened to teach them the strength or the extent of their 
own feelings; they did not even know the sound of 
each other’s voices. These two mute friends avoided 
a closer union as though it were an evil. Each seemed 
23 


354 


A Double Life. 


to fear to bring upon the other a heavier misfortune 
than those they each were bearing. Was it the reti¬ 
cence of friendship that thus restrained them, or that 
dread of selfishness, that atrocious distrust which puts a 
barrier between all persons collected within the walls 
of a crowded city? Did the secret voice of their con¬ 
sciences warn them of coming peril? It is wholly 
impossible to explain the feeling which kept them 
enemies even more than friends, seemingly as indiffer¬ 
ent to each other as they were, in truth, attached; as 
much united by instinct as they were parted by fact. 
Perhaps each was desirous of keeping both his and 
her illusion. It almost seemed as though this name¬ 
less black gentleman feared to hear from those fresh 
lips, pure as a flower, some vulgar speech, and that 
Caroline felt herself unworthy of that mysterious 
being who bore to her eyes the unmistakable signs 
of power and fortune. 

As for Madame Crochard, that observant mother, 
half angry at her daughter’s indecision, began to 
show a sulky face to her black monsieur, on whom she 
had hitherto smiled with an air as complacent as it 
was servile. Never did she bemoan herself to her 
daughter so bitterly at the hard fate which obliged 
her, at her age, to cook; never did her rheumatism 
and her catarrh draw from her so many moans. Her 
state of mind was such that she failed to do, that 
winter, the number of yards of tulle on which the poor 
household counted. 

Under these circumstances and toward the end of 
December, when bread was becoming dearer and the 
poor were already feeling that rise in the cost of 


A Double Life, 


355 


grains which made the year 1816 so cruel to poverty, 
the unknown man observed on the face of the girl, 
whose name was unknown to him, the traces of some 
painful thought which her friendly smiles were unable 
to chase away. lie recognized also in her eyes the 
weary indications of nocturnal labor. On one of the 
last nights of the month he returned, contrary to cus¬ 
tom, through the rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean about 
one in the morning. The stillness of the hour enabled 
him to hear, even before he reached the house, the 
whining voice of the old w'oman, and the still more 
distressing tones of the girl, the sound of which 
mingled with the hissing sound of a fall of snow. 

He walked slowly; then, at the risk of being 
arrested, he crouched before the window to listen to 
the mother and daughter, examining them through one 
of the many holes in the muslin curtains. A legal 
paper lay on the table which stood between their two 
work-frames, on which were the lamp and the globes 
of water. He recognized at once a summons of some 
kind. Madame Crochard was weeping bitterly, and 
the voice of the girl was guttural with her grief, com¬ 
pletely changing its soft and caressing ring. 

“Why make yourself so unhappy, mother? Mon¬ 
sieur Moulineux will never sell our furniture, and he 
cannot turn us out before I have finished this gown. 
Two nights more and I shall carry it to Madame 
Roguin.” 

“And she ’ll make you wait for the money, as usual. 
Besides, the price of that gown won’t pay the baker, 
too.” 

The spectator of this scene had so great a habit of 


356 


A Double Life, 


reading faces that he thought he saw as much hypoc¬ 
risy in the mother’s grief as there was truth in the 
daughter’s. He disappeared at once; but presently 
returned. Again he looked through the ragged mus¬ 
lin. The mother had gone to bed. The girl was 
bending over her frame with indefatigable energy. 
On the table beside the summons lay a small piece of 
bread cut in a triangle, meant, no doubt to support 
her during the night, perhaps to sustain her courage. 
The black gentleman shuddered with pity and with 
pain; he flung his purse through a hole in the window 
that was covered with paper, in such a wmy that it fell 
at the girl’s feet. Then, v/ithout waiting to see her 
surprise, he escaped, his heart beating, his cheeks on 
fire. 

The next day the sad and alien man passed by as 
usual, affecting a preoccupied air. But he was not 
allowed to escape the girl’s gratitude. Caroline had 
opened the window and was digging about the box 
of earth with a knife, a pretext of ingenuous falsity 
which proved to her benefactor that on this occasion 
she was determined not to see him through glass. 
With eyes full of tears she made a sign wuth her head 
as if to say, “I can only pay you with my heart.” 

But the black gentleman seemed not to understand 
the expression of this true gratitude. That evening, 
when he passed again, Caroline was busy in pasting 
another paper over the broken window and so was able 
to smile to him, showing the enamel of her brilliant 
teeth, like, as it were, a promise. From that day the 
black gentleman took another road, and appeared no 
more in the rue du Tourniquet. 




A Double Life, 


357 


During the first week of the following May, on a 
Saturday morning, as Caroline was watering her 
honeysuckle, she beheld between the two black lines 
of houses a narrow strip of cloudless sky, and called 
to her mother in the next room ; — 

“Mamma! let us go to-morrow for a day’s pleasur¬ 
ing at Montmorency I ” 

The words had scarcely left her lips when the black 
monsieur passed, sadder and evidently more oppressed 
than ever. The look of pleasure which Caroline gave 
him might have passed for an invitation. In fact, 
the next day, when Madame Crochard, arrayed in a 
reddish-brown merino pelisse, a silk bonnet, and a 
striped shawl made to imitate cashmere, went with 
her daughter to choose a coucoa at the corner of the 
rue d’Enghien and the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, 
she found her black monsieur standing there, with 
the air of a man who was waiting for a woman. 

A smile of pleasure softened the face of the stranger 
when he beheld Caroline, whose little feet, shod in 
puce-colored prunella boots, appeared beneath her 
wdiite muslin gown, which, blown by the wind (too 
often perfidious to ill-made forms), showed off her 
beautiful figure, while her face, shaded by a straw hat 
lined with pink, seemed illuminated by a ray from 
heaven. A broad belt, also puce-colored, set off a 
little waist he might have spanned between his fingers; 
her hair, parted into two brown bandeaus round a 
forehead white as milk, gave her an air of simple 
purity which nothing marred. Pleasure seemed to 
make her as light as the straw of her hat; but a hope 
darted into her mind on seeing the black gentleman. 


358 


A Double Life. 


eclipsing all else. He himself appeared irresolute. 
Perhaps the sudden revelation of joy on'the girl’s face 
caused by his presence may have decided him, for he 
turned and hired a cabriolet, with a fairly good horse, 
to go to Saint-Leu-Taverny; then he asked Madame 
Crochard and her daughter to take seats in it. 

The mother accepted without further urging; but no 
sooner had the vehicle fairly started than she brought 
forth scruples and regrets for the inconvenience that 
two women would cause to their companion. 

“Perhaps monsieur would rather go alone to Saint- 
Leu?” she said hypocritically. 

Presently she complained of the heat, and especially 
of her troublesome catarrh, which, she said, had kept 
her awake all night, and the carriage had hardly 
reached Saint-Denis before she was asleep, though 
certain of her snores seemed doubtful to the black 
monsieur, who frowned heavily and looked at the old 
woman with singular suspicion. 

“Oh! she’s asleep,” said Caroline, naively. “She 
coughed all night, and must be tired.” 

For all answer, the gentleman cast a shrewd smile 
upon the girl which seemed to mean: — 

“Innocent creature! you don’t know j^our mother.” 

However, in spite of his distrust, by the time the 
cabriolet was rolling along the avenue of poplars 
which leads to Eau Bonne, the black gentleman 
believed that Madame Crochard was really asleep; 
perhaps, however, he no longer cared to know whether 
the sleep was real or feigned. Whether it was that 
the beauty of the skies, the pure country air, and those 
delicious scents wafted by the budding poplars, the 


A Double Life, 


359 


willow catkins, the blossoms of the eglantine, had 
inclined his heart to open and expand; or that further 
silence became irksome to him; or that the sparkling 
eyes of the young girl were answering his, — it is cer¬ 
tain that the black monsieur now began a conversa¬ 
tion, as vague as the quivering of the foliage to the 
breeze, as vagabond as the circlings of a butterfly, as 
little without real motive as the voice, softly melo¬ 
dious, of the fields, but marked, like Nature herself, 
with mysterious love. 

At this season the country quivers like a bride who 
has just put on her bridal robes; it invites to pleasure 
the coldest heart. To leave the darksome streets of 
the Marais for the first time since the previous autumn, 
and to find one’s self suddenly in the bosom of that har¬ 
monious and picturesque valley of Montmorency; to 
pass through it in the morning when the eye can fol¬ 
low the infinity of its horizons, and to turn from that 
to an infinity of love in the eyes beside us, — what 
heart will continue icy, what lips will keep their 
secrets ? 

The unknown man found Caroline more gay than 
clever, more loving than informed. But if her laugh 
was a trifle giddy, her words bore evidence of true 
feeling; and when to the leading questions of her 
companion she replied with that effusion of the heart 
which the lower classes lavish, when they feel it, 
without the reticence of persons of good society, the 
face of the black gentleman brightened, and seemed, 
as it were, reborn; it lost by degrees the sadness that 
contracted its features, and gradually, tint by tint, 
it gained a look of youth and a character of beauty 


360 


A Double Life, 


which made the young girl proud and happy. She 
divined instinctively that her friend, deprived of ten¬ 
derness and love, no longer believed in the devotion 
of women. At last a sudden gush of Caroline’s light 
chatter carried off the last cloud which veiled on the 
stranger’s face his real youth and his native char¬ 
acter ; he seemed to come to some eternal divorce from 
oppressive ideas, and he now displayed a vivacity of 
heart which the solemnity of his face had hitherto 
concealed. The talk became insensibly so familiar 
that by the time the carriage stopped at the first 
houses of the village of Saint-Leu Caroline was call¬ 
ing her friend ‘‘Monsieur Roger.” Then, for the first 
time, Madame Crochard woke up. 

“Caroline, she must have heard us,” said Roger, 
suspiciously, in the young girl’s ear. 

Caroline answered by a charming smile of in¬ 
credulity, which dispersed the dark cloud brought by 
the fear of a scheme to the forehead of the distrust¬ 
ful man. Without expressing any surprise, Madame 
Crochard approved of everything, and followed her 
daughter and Monsieur Roger to the park of Saint- 
Leu, where the pair had agreed to ramble about the 
smiling meadows and the balmy groves which the taste 
of Queen Hortense had rendered celebrated. 

“Heavens! how lovely! ” cried Caroline, when, hav¬ 
ing reached the green brow of the hill where the forest 
of Montmorency begins, she saw at her feet the vast 
valley winding its serpentine way dotted with villages, 
steeples, fields, and meadows, a murmur of which 
came softly to her ear like the purling of waves, as her 
eyes rested on the blue horizon of the distant hills. 


A Double Life. 


361 


The three excursionists followed the banks of an 
artificial river until they reached the Swiss valley with 
its chalet where Napoleon and Queen Hortense were 
wont to stay. When Caroline had seated herself with 
sacred respect upon the mossy wooden bench where 
kings and princesses and the Emperor had reposed 
themselves, Madame Crochard manifested a desire to 
take a closer view of a suspension bridge between two 
cliffs a little farther on. Wending her way to that 
rural curiosity she left her daughter to the care of 
Monsieur Roger, remarking, however, that she should 
not go out of sight. 

“Poor little thing! ” cried Roger, “have you never 
known comfort or luxury? Don’t you sometimes wish 
to wear the pretty gowns you embroider? ” 

‘‘I should n’t be telling the truth. Monsieur Roger, 
if I said I never thought of the happiness rich people 
must enjoy. Yes, I do think often, specially when 
asleep, of the pleasure it would be to see my poor 
mother saved the trouble of going out to buy our food 
and then preparing it at her age. I would like to 
have a charwoman come in the morning before she is 
out of bed, and make her a cup of coffee with plenty 
of sugar, white sugar, in it. She likes to read novels, 
poor dear woman! Well, I’d rather she used her eyes 
on her favorite reading than strain them counting bob¬ 
bins from morning till night. Also, she really needs a 
little good wine. I do wish I could see her happy, 
she is so kind.” 

“Then she has always been kind to you? ” 

“Oh, yes! ” said the girl, in an earnest voice. 

As they watched Madame Crochard, who had reached 


362 


A Doulle Life, 


the middle of the bridge, and now shook her finger at 
them, Caroline continued : — 

“Oh, yes! she has always been kind to me. What 
care she gave me when I was little! She sold her last 
forks and spoons to apprentice me to the old maid 
who taught me to embroider. And my poor father! 
she took such pains to make him happy in his last 
da3^s! ” 

At this remembrance the girl shuddered, and put 
her hands before her ej^es. 

“Bah! don’t let us think of past troubles,” she 
resumed, gayly. 

Then she colored, perceiving that Roger was much 
affected, but she dared not look at him. 

“What did your father do? ” asked Roger. 

“He was a dancer at the Opera before the Revolu¬ 
tion,” she replied, with the simplest air in the w'orld, 
“and my mother sang in the chorus. My father, who 
managed the evolutions on the stage, chanced to be 
present at the taking of the Bastille. He was recog¬ 
nized by some of the assailants, who asked him if he 
could n’t lead a real attack as he had led so many 
sham ones at the theatre. Father was brave, and he 
agreed; he led the insurgents, and was rewarded with 
the rank of captain in the army of the Sambre-et- 
Meuse, where he behaved in such a way that he was 
rapidly promoted and became a colonel. But he was 
terribly wounded at Lutzen, and returned to Paris to 
die, after a year’s illness. The Bourbons came back, 
and of course my mother could not get a pension, and 
w^e fell into such dreadful poverty that we had to work 
for our living. Of late the poor dear woman has been 


A Double Life, 


363 


ailing; and she isn’t as resigned as she used to be; 
she complains, and I don’t wonder, —she, who once 
had all the comforts of an easy life. As for me, I 
can’t regret comforts I never had; but there’s one 
thing I do hope Heaven will grant me.” 

“What is that? ” asked Roger, who seemed dreamy. 

“That ladies will always wear embroidered gowns, 
so that I shall never want work.” 

The frankness of these avowals interested her hearer 
so much that when Madame Crochard slowly returned 
to them, he looked at her with an eye that was less 
hostile. 

“Well, my children, have you had a good talk?’' 
she asked, in a tone both indulgent and sly. “When 
one thinks. Monsieur Roger, that ‘ the little corporal ’ 
sat on that bench where you are sitting! ” she con¬ 
tinued, after a moment’s silence. “Poor man! how 
my husband loved him! Ah! it is a good thing 
Crochard died; he never could have borne to think 
of him at that place where those others have put him.” 

Roger laid a finger on his lips, and the old woman, 
nodding her head, said, gravely: — 

“Enough; I ’ll keep a dead tongue in my head and 
my lips tight. But,” she added, opening the front 
of her dress, and showing the cross of the Legion of 
honor and its red ribbon fastened to her throat with 
a black bow, “nothing can prevent me from wearing 
what he gave to my poor Crochard; I mean to be 
buried with it.” 

Hearing these words, which at that time were held 
to be seditious, Roger interrupted the old woman by 
rising abruptly, and they started to return to the vil- 


364 


A Doulle Life, 


lage through the park. The young man absented 
himself for a few moments to order a meal at the best 
restaurant, then he returned to fetch the two women, 
guiding them along the paths through the forest. 

The dinner was gay. Eoger was no longer that 
gloomy shadow which for months had passed through 
the rue du Tourniquet; no longer the “black mon¬ 
sieur,” but rather a hopeful young man ready to let 
himself float upon the current of life like the two 
women who were happy in the day’s enjoyment, though 
the morrow might find them without food. He seemed, 
indeed, to be under the influence of the joys of youth; 
his smile had something caressing and childlike about 
it. When, at five o’clock, the pleasant dinner came 
to an end with a few glasses of champagne, Eoger 
was the first to propose that they should go to the 
village ball, under the chestnut-trees, where he and 
Caroline danced together. Their hands met in one 
thought, their hearts beat with the same hope, and 
beneath that azure sky, glowing toward the west with 
the level rays of the setting sun, their glances had a 
brilliancy which, to each other’s heart, paled even 
that of the heaven above them. Strange power of a 
thought and a desire! nothing seemed impossible to 
these two beings. In such magic moments, when 
pleasure casts its reflections on the future, the soul 
can see naught but happiness. This charming day 
had created for both of them memories to which they 
could compare no other experience of their lives. Is 
the spring more perfect than the current, the desire 
more ravishing than its fulfilment? is the thing hoped- 
for more attractive than the thing possessed? 


A Double Life. 


365 


“There’s our day already over! ” 

At this exclamation which escaped the young man 
when the dance ended, Caroline looked at him com¬ 
passionately, for she saw the sadness beginning again 
to cloud his face. 

Why are you not as happy in Paris as you have 
been here?’^ she said. “Is there no happiness except 
at Saint-Leu? It seems to me I can never again be 
discontented anywhere.’’ 

Roger quivered at those words, dictated by the soft 
abandonment which often leads women farther than 
they mean to go, —just as, on the other hand, prudery 
makes them stiffer than they really are. For the first 
time since that look which began their intimacy, 
Caroline and Roger had one and the same thought. 
Though they did not express it, they each felt it by a 
mutual impression something like that of the warmth 
of a glowing hearth beneficently comforting in winter. 
Then, as if they feared their silence, they hastened to 
the place where their vehicle awaited them. But be¬ 
fore they reached it they took each other by the hand 
and ran along a wood-path in advance of Madame 
Crochard. When the white of the old woman’s tulle 
cap was no longer visible through the foliage, Roger 
turned to the girl and said, with a troubled voice and 
a beating heart: — 

“Caroline?” 

The girl, confused, stepped back a few paces, 
understanding the desires that interrogation implied; 
nevertheless she held out her hand, which was ardently 
kissed, though she quickly withdrew it, for at that 
moment her mother came in sight. Madame Crochard 


366 


A Double Life. 


pretended to have seen nothing, as if, remembering 
her stage experience, the scene was only an aside. 

The history of Roger and Caroline does not continue 
in the rue du Tourniquet; to meet them again we must 
go to the very centre of modern Paris, where, among 
the newly built houses, there are found apartments 
which seem expressly made for the honeymoon of 
bridal couples. The paper and painting are as fresh 
as they; the decoration, like their love, is in its 
bloom; all is in harmony with young ideas and bound¬ 
ing desires. About the middle of the rue Taitbout, in 
a house where the copings were still white, the col¬ 
umns of the vestibule and the door unsoiled, the walls 
shining with that coquettish paint which our renewed 
relations with England brought into fashion, was a 
little apartment on the second floor, arranged by an 
architect as if he had foreseen the uses to which it 
would be put. A simple airy antechamber with a 
stucco wainscot gave entrance to a salon and a very 
small dining-room. The salon communicated with a 
pretty bedchamber, beyond which was a bathroom. 
The mantels were adorned with mirrors choicely 
framed. The doors were painted with arabesques 
in excellent taste, and the style of the cornices was 
pure. An amateur would have recognized, better 
there than elsewhere, that science of arrangement and 
decoration which distinguishes the work of oui’ modern 
architects. 

For the last month Caroline had occupied this pretty 
apartment, which was furnished by upholsterers under 
direction of the architect. A short description of the 
principal room will give an idea of the marvels this 


A Double Life. 367 

apartment presented to Caroline’s eyes when Roger 
brought her there. 

Hangings of gray cloth enlivened by green silk 
trimmings covered the walls of the bedroom. The 
furniture, upholstered with pale-green cassimere, was 
of that light and graceful shape then coming into 
fashion. A bureau of native wood inlaid with some 
darker wood held the treasures of the trousseau; a 
secretary of the same, a bed with antique drapery, 
curtains of gray silk with green fringes, a bronze 
clock representing Cupid crowning Psyche, and a car¬ 
pet with gothic designs on a reddish ground were the 
principal features of this place of delight. Opposite 
to a psyche mirror stood a charming toilet-table, in 
front of which sat the ex-embroidery girl, very impa¬ 
tient with the scientific labor of Plaisir, the famous 
coiffeur, who was dressing her hair. 

“Do you expect to get it done to-day?” she was 
saying. 

“Madame’s hair is so long and thick,” responded 
Plaisir. 

Caroline could not help smiling. The flattery of 
the artistic hair-dresser reminded her, no doubt, of 
the passionate admiration expressed by her friend for 
the beautiful hair he idolized. When Plaisir had 
departed, Caroline’s maid came to hold counsel with 
her mistress as to which dress was most likely to 
please Roger. It was then the beginning of Septem¬ 
ber, 1816 ; a dress of green grenadine trimmed with 
chinchilla was finally chosen. 

As soon as her toilet was over Caroline darted into 
the salon, opened a window looking upon the street, 


368 


A Douhle Life, 


and went out upon the elegant little balcony which 
adorned the facade of the house; there she folded her 
arms on the railing in a charming attitude, not taken 
to excite the admiration of the passers who frequently 
turned to look at her, but to fix her eyes on the boulevard 
at the end of the rue Taitbout. This glimpse, which 
might be compared to the hole in a stage-curtain through 
which the actors see the audience, enabled her to w'atch 
the multitude of elegant carriages and the crowds of 
people carried past that one spot like the rapid slide of 
a magic lantern. Uncertain whether Roger would come 
on foot or in a carriage, the former lodger in the rue 
du Tourniquet examined in turn the pedestrians and 
the tilburys, a light style of phaeton recently brought 
to France by the English. Expressions of love and 
mutinous provocation crossed her face when, after 
watching for half an hour, neither heart nor sight had 
shown her the person for whom she waited, ^yhat 
contempt, what indifference was on her pretty face for 
all the other beings who were hurrying along like ants 
beneath her! Her gray eyes, sparkling with mischief, 
were dazzling. Wholly absorbed in her passion, she 
avoided the admiration of others with as much care as 
some women take to obtain it; and she troubled her¬ 
self not at all as to whether a remembrance of her 
white figure leaning on the balcony should or should 
not disappear on the morrow from the minds of the 
passers who were now admiring her; she saw but one 
form, and she had in her head but one idea. 

When the dappled head of a certain horse turned 
from the boulevard into the street, Caroline quivered 
and stood on tiptoe, trying to recognize the white 


A Double Life, 


369 


reins and the color of the tilbury. Yes, it was he! 
Roger, as he turned the corner, looked toward the 
balcony and whipped his horse and soon reached the 
bronze door, with which the animal w'as now as famil¬ 
iar as its master. The door of the apartment was 
opened by the maid, who had heard her mistress’s cry 
of pleasure. Roger rushed into the salon, took Caro¬ 
line in his arms, and kissed her with that effusion of 
feeling which accompanies the 'rare meetings of two 
creatures who love each other. Then they sat down 
together on a sofa before the fire, and silently looked 
at one another, — expressing their happiness only by 
the close grasp of their hands, and communicating their 
thoughts through their eyes. 

“Yes, it is he! ” she said at last. “Yes, it is you! 
Do you know that it is three whole days since I last 
saw you? — an age! But what is the matter? I know 
you have some trouble on your mind.” 

“My poor Caroline — ” 

“Oh, nonsense! poor Caroline—” 

“Don’t laugh, my angel; we can’t go to-night to 
the Feydeau.” 

Caroline made a face of discontent, which faded 
instantly. 

“How silly of me! why should I care about the 
theatre when I have you here. To see you! is n’t that 
the only play I care for? ” she cried, passing her hand 
through his hair. 

“I am obliged to dine with the attorney-general. 
We have a most troublesome affair on hand. He met 
me in the great hall of the Palais; and as I open the 
case, he asked me to dinner that we might talk it 

24 


370 


A Double Life. 


over previously. But, my darling, you can take your 
mother to the Feydeau and I ’ll join you there, if the 
conference ends early.” 

“Go to the theatre without you! ” she cried, with 
an expression of astonishment; “enjoy a pleasure you 
can’t share! Oh, Roger, you don’t deserve to be 
kissed,” she added, throwing her arm round his neck 
with a miotion as naive as it was seductive. 

“Caroline, I must go now, for I have to dress, and 
it takes so long to reach the Marais; besides, I have 
business that must be finished before dinner.” 

“Monsieur,” said Caroline, “take care what you 
say! My mother assures me that when men begin to 
talk to us of business that means they no longer love 
us.” 

“But, Caroline, 1 did come as I promised; I 
snatched this hour from my pitiless — ” 

“Oh, hush!” she said, putting her finger on his 
lips; “hush! don't you see that I was joking?” 

At this moment Roger’s eye lighted on an article of 
furniture brought that morning by the upholsterer, — 
the old rosewood embroidery-frame the product of 
which supported Caroline and her mother when they 
lived in the rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, — which 
had just been “done-up ” like new, and on it a very 
beautiful tulle dress was already stretched. 

“Yes, look at it, dear friend! I shall work to¬ 
night; and while I work I shall be thinking of those 
first days and weeks and months when you passed me 
without a word—^but not without a look! those days 
when the memory of a look kept me awake at night. 
Oh! my dear frame, the handsomest bit of furniture 


A Double Life. 


371 


in the room, though you did not give it to me. Ah! 
you don’t know!” she continued, seating herself on 
Roger’s knee. “Listen! I want to give to the poor 
all I can now earn by embroidery. You have made 
me so rich, I want for nothing. How I love that dear 
property of Beliefeuille! less for what it is, however, 
than because you gave it to me. But tell me, Roger; 
I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille; 
can I ? you ought to know. Is it legal or allowable ? ” 

Seeing the little nod of affirmation to which Roger 
was led by his hatred for the name of Crochard, Caro¬ 
line danced lightly about the room, clapping her hands 
together. 

“It seems to me,” she cried, “that I shall belong to 
you more in that way. Generally a girl gives up her 
own name and takes that of her husband.” 

An importunate idea, which she drove away 
instantly, made her blush. She took Roger by the 
hand and led him to the piano. 

“Listen,” she said. “I know my sonata now like 
an angel.” 

So saying, her fingers ran over the ivory keys, but a 
strong arm caught her round the waist and lifted her. 

“Caroline, I ought to be far away by this time.” 

“You must go? Well, go, then,” she said, pouting. 

But she smiled as she looked at the clock, and cried 
out, joyously: — 

“At any rate, I have kept you a quarter of an hour 
more.” 

“Adieu, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille,” he said, 
with the gentle mockery of love. 

She took a kiss and led him to the door. When the 


372 


A Double Life, 


sound of his steps was no longer to be heard on the 
staircase she ran to the balcony to see him get into 
his tilbury, pick up the reins, and send her a last 
look. Then she listened to the roll of the wheels 
along the street, and followed with her eyes the mettle¬ 
some horse, the hat of the master, the gold lace on the 
groom’s livery, and even looked long at the corner of 
the street which parted her from that vision of her 
heart. 

Five years after the installation of Mademoiselle 
Caroline de Bellefeuille in the pretty apartment in 
the rue Taitbout, another domestic scene was happen¬ 
ing there which tightened still further the bonds of 
affection between the two beings who loved each 
other. 

In the middle of the blue salon and in front of the 
window that opened on the balcony, a little boy 
about four and a half years old was making an infer¬ 
nal racket by whipping and urging his rocking-horse, 
which was going at a pace that did not please him. 
The curls of his pretty blond head were falling in 
disorder on his collarette, and he smiled like an angel 
at his mother when she called to him from her sofa: 

“Not so much noise, Charles; you’ll wake your 
little sister.” 

At that the inquiring boy jumped hastily from his 
horse and came on tiptoe, as if he feared to make a 
sound on the carpet; then, with a finger between his 
little teeth, he stood in one of those infantine atti¬ 
tudes which have so much grace because they are 
natural, and gently lifted the white muslin veil that hid 
the rosy face of a baby asleep on its mother’s knee. 


A Double Life* 


373 


she really asleep?” he said, much surprised. 
‘‘Why does Eugenie sleep when we are all awake?” 
he inquired, opening wide his great black eyes which 
floated in liquid light. 

“God only knows that,” replied Caroline, smiling. 

Mother and son gazed at the little girl baptized 
that morning. Caroline, now about twenty-four years 
old, had developed a beauty which happiness unalloyed 
and constant pleasure had brought into bloom. In 
her, the woman was now complete. Happy in obey¬ 
ing all the wishes of her dear Roger, she had by 
degrees acquired the accomplishments in which she 
was formerly lacking. She could play quite well on 
the piano, and sang agreeably. Ignorant of the usages 
of society (which would have repulsed her, and where 
she would not have gone had it even desired her, for 
a happy woman does not seek the world), she had not 
learned how to assume the social elegance of manner 
nor how to maintain the conversation teeming with 
words and empty of thought which passes current in 
the world. But, on the other hand, she had laboriously 
obtained the knowledge and the accomplishments 
necessary to a mother whose ambition lies in bringing 
up her children properly. 

Never to part from her son; to give him from his 
cradle those lessons of every hour which imprint upon 
the youthful soul a love of goodness and of beauty, 
to preserve him from all evil influences, to fulfil the 
wearisome functions of a nurse and the tender obliga¬ 
tions of a mother, — such were her pleasures. From 
the very first day of her love the discreet and gentle 
creature resigned herself so thoroughly to make no 


374 


A Double Life, 


step beyond the enchanted sphere in which she found 
her joys, that after six years of the tenderest union 
she knew her friend only by the name of Roger. In 
her bedroom an engraving of Psyche coming with her 
lamp to look at Cupid, though forbidden by the god to 
do so, reminded her of the conditions of her happiness. 

During these six years no ill-placed ambition on 
her part wearied Roger’s heart, a treasure-house of 
kindness. Never did she wdsh for display, for dia¬ 
monds, for toilets; she refused the luxury of a car¬ 
riage offered a score of times to her vanity. To watch 
on the balcony for Roger’s cabriolet, to go with him 
to the theatre, to ramble with him in fine weather in 
the country about Paris, to hope for him, to see him, 
to hope for him again, — that was the story of her life, 
poor in events, rich in affection. 

\yhile rocking to sleep with a song the baby, a 
girl, born a few months before the day of which we 
speak, she pleased herself by evoking her memories of 
the past. The period she liked best to dwell on was 
the month of September in every year, Vv^hen Roger 
took her to Bellefeuille to enjoy the country at that 
season. Nature is then as prodigal of fruit as of 
flowers; the evenings are warm, the mornings soft, 
and the sparkle of summer still keeps at bay the 
melancholy ghost of autumn. 

During the first period of their love Caroline attrib¬ 
uted the calm equability of soul and the gentleness of 
which Roger gave her so many proofs to the rarity of 
their meetings, always longed for, and to their manner 
of life, which did not keep them perpetually in each 
other’s presence, as with husband and wife. She 



A Double Life. 


375 


recalled with delight how, during their first stay on 
the beautiful little property in the Gatinais, tormented 
by a vague fear, she watched him. Useless espial of 
love! Each of those joyful months passed like 
a dream in the bosom of a happiness that proved 
unchangeable. She had never seen that kind and 
tender being without a smile on his lips, — a smile 
that seemed the echo of her own. Sometimes these 
pictures too vividly evoked brought tears to her eyes; 
she fancied she did not love him enough, and was 
tempted to see in her equivocal situation a sort of tax 
levied by fate upon her love. 

At other times an invincible curiosity led her to 
wonder for the millionth time what events they were 
which could have driven so loving a man as Roger to 
find his happiness in ways that were clandestine and 
illegal. She invented a score of romances, chiefly to 
escape admitting the real reason, long since divined, 
though her heart refused to believe in it. 

She now rose, still holding her sleeping child in her 
arms, and went into the dining-room to superintend 
the arrangements of the table for dinner. The day 
was the 6th of May, 1822, the anniversary of their 
excursion to the park of Saint-Leu, when her life was 
decided; during every succeeding year that day had 
been kept as a festival of the heart. Caroline now 
selected the linen and ordered the arrangement of the 
dessert. Having thus taken the pains which she knew 
would please Roger, she laid the baby in its pretty 
cradle and took up her station on the balcony to watch 
for the useful cabriolet which had now replaced the 
elegant tilbury of former years. 


376 


A Double Life, 


After receiving the first onset of Caroline’s caresses 
and those of the lively urchin who called him “papa,” 
Roger went to the cradle, looked at his sleeping daugh¬ 
ter, kissed her forehead, and drew from his pocket a 
long paper, covered with black lines. 

“Caroline,” he said, “here ’s the dowry of Made¬ 
moiselle Eugenie de Beliefeuille.” 

The mother took the paper (a certificate of invest¬ 
ment on the Grand-livre) gratefully. 

“Why three thousand francs a year to Eugenie, 
when you only gave fifteen hundred a year to 
Charles ? ” she asked. 

“Charles, my angel, will be a man,” he answered. 
“Fifteen hundred francs will suffice to support him. 
With that income a man of energy is above want. If, 
by chance, your son should be a nullity, I do not wish 
to give him enough to make him dissipated. If he 
has ambition, that small amount of property will in¬ 
spire him with a love of work, and it will also enable 
to work. Eugenie is a woman, and must be provided 
for.” 

The father began to play with Charles, whose lively 
demonstrations were proofs of the independence and 
liberty in which he was being educated. No fear 
between child and father destroyed that charm which 
compensates paternity for its heavy responsibilities; 
the gayety of the little family was as sweet as it was 
genuine. That evening a magic lantern was produced 
which cast upon a white sheet mysterious scenes and 
pictures to the great amazement of the boy. More 
than once the raptures of the innocent little fellow 
excited the wild laughter of his father and mother. 


A Double Life. 


377 


Later, when the child had gone to bed, the baby woke, 
demanding its legitimate nourishment. By the light 
of the lamp, beside the hearth, in that chamber of 
peace and pleasure, Roger abandoned himself to the 
happiness of contemplating the picture of Caroline 
with her infant at her breast, white and fresh as a lily 
when it blooms, her beautiful brown hair falling in 
such masses of curls as almost to hide her throat. 
The light, as it fell, brought out the charms of this 
young mother, —multiplying upon her and about her, 
on her clothes and on her infant, those picturesque 
effects which are produced by combinations of light 
and shade. The face of the calm and silent woman 
seemed sweeter than ever before to Roger, who looked 
with tender eyes at the red and curving lips from 
which no bitter or discordant word had ever issued. 
The same love shone in Caroline’s own eyes as she 
examined Roger furtively, either to enjoy the effect 
she was producing, or to know if she might keep him 
that evening. 

Roger, who saw that meaning in her glance, said, 
with feigned regret: — 

“I must soon be going. I have important business 
to attend to; they expect me at home. Duty first; 
isn’t that so, my darling?” 

Caroline watched him with a sad and gentle look, 
w'hich did not leave him ignorant of the pain of her 
sacrifice. 

“Adieu, then,” she said. “Go now! If you stay 
an hour longer perhaps I shall not then be able to let 
you go.” 

“My angel,” he said, smiling, “I have three days* 


378 


A Douhle Life, 


leave of absence, and I am supposed to be at this 
moment twenty leagues from Paris.” 

A few days after this anniversary of the 6th of 
May, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was hurrying one 
morning to the rue Saint-Louis in the Marais, hoping 
not to arrive too late at a house where she usually 
went regularly once a week. A messenger had been 
sent to tell her that her mother, Madame Crochard, 
was dying from a complication of ills brought on by 
catarrh and rheumatism. 

While Caroline was still on the way, certain scrup¬ 
ulous old women with whom Madame Crochard had 
made friends for the last few years, introduced a priest 
into the clean and comfortable apartment of the old 
mother on the second floor of the house. Madame 
Crochard’s servant was ignorant that the pretty young 
lady with whom her mistress often dined was the old 
woman’s daughter. She was the flrst to propose call¬ 
ing in a confessor, hoping, secretly, that the priest 
would be of as much use to her as to the sick woman. 

Between two games of cards, or while walking 
together in the Jardin Turc, the old women with whom 
Madame Crochard gossiped daily had contrived to 
instil into the hardened heart of their friend certain 
scruples as to her past life, a few ideas of the future, 
a few fears on the subject of hell, and certain hopes 
of pardon based on a sincere return to the duties of 
religion. Consequently, during this solemn morning 
three old dames from the rue Saint-FranQois and the 
rue Vieille-du-Temple established themselves in the 
salon where Madame Crochard was in the habit of 
receiving them every Tuesday. They each took turns 


A Double Life, 


379 


to keep the poor old creature company and give her 
those false hopes with which the sick are usually 
deluded. 

It was not until the crisis seemed approaching and 
the doctor, called in the night before, refused to 
answer for the patient’s life, that the three old women 
consulted one another to decide if it were necessary 
to notify Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Frangoise, 
the maid, was finally instructed to send a messeuger 
to the rue Taitbout to inform the young relation whose 
influence was feared by the four old women, each of 
whom devoutly hoped that the man might return too 
late with the person on whom Madame Crochard had 
seemed to set a great affection. The latter, rich to 
their minds, and spending at least three thousand 
francs a year, was courted and cared for by the female 
trio solely because none of these good friends, nor 
even Frangoise herself, knew of her having any heirs. 
The opulence in which her young relation Mademoi¬ 
selle de Bellefeuille lived (Madame Crochard refrained 
from calling Caroline her daughter, according to a 
well-known custom of the Opera of her day) seemed 
to justify their scheme of sharing the property of the 
dying woman among themselves. 

Presently one of the three crones, who was watching 
the patient, put her shaking head into the room where 
the other two were waiting, and said: — 

“It is time to send for the Abbe Fontanon. In two 
hours from now she will be unconscious, and could n’t 
sign her name.” 

Old Frangoise departed immediately, and soon re¬ 
turned with a man in a black coat. A narrow fore- 


330 


A Double Life. 


head bespoke a narrow mind in this priest, whose face 
was of the commonest, — his heavy, hanging cheeks, 
his double chin, showing plainly enough a comfort- 
loving egotist. His powdered hair gave him a spe¬ 
ciously mild appearance until he raised his small brown 
eyes, which were very prominent, and would have been 
in their proper place beneath the brows of a Kalmuc 
Tartar. 

“Monsieur I’abbe,” Frangoise was saying to him, 
“I thank you for your advice, but you must please 
to remember the care I have taken of this dear 
woman — ” 

Here she suddenly paused, observing that the door 
of the apartment was open and that the most insinuat¬ 
ing of the three crones was standing on the landing to 
be the first to speak with the confessor. 

When the ecclesiastic had graciously received the 
triple broadside of the three pious and devoted friends 
of the widow he went into the latter’s chamber and 
sat down by her bedside. Decency and a certain 
sense of propriety forced the three ladies and old 
FranQoise to remain in the adjoining room, where 
they assumed looks of grief and mourning, which 
none but wrinkled old faces like theirs can mimic 
to perfection. 

“Ah! but haven’t I been unlucky?” cried Fran- 
9oise, with a sigh. “This is the fourth mistress I’ve 
had the grief to bury. The first left me an annuity 
of a hundred francs, the second a hundred and fifty, 
the third a sum down of three thousand. After thirty 
years’ service that’s all I ’ve got! ” 

The servant presently used her right of going and 


A Double Life, 


381 


coming to slip into a little closet where she could 
overhear the priest’s words. 

“I see with pleasure,” said Fontanon, “that your 
feelings, my daughter, are those of true piety. You 
are wearing, I see, some holy relic.” 

Madame Crochard made a vague movement which 
showed perhaps that she was not wholly in her right 
mind, for she dragged out the imperial cross of the 
Legion of honor. 

The abbe rolled back his chair on beholding the 
effigy of the emperor. But he soon drew closer to his 
penitent, who talked to him in so low a voice that for 
a time Frangoise could hear nothing. 

“A curse upon me!/’ cried the old woman suddenly, 
in a louder voice. “Don’t abandon me, monsieur 
I’abbe. Do you really think I shall have to answer 
for my daughter’s soul?” 

The priest spoke in so low a voice that Frangoise 
could not hear him through the partition. 

“Alas!” cried the widow, shrilly, “the wretch has 
given me nothing that I can will to any one. When 
he took my poor Caroline, he separated her from me, 
and gave me only three thousand francs a year, the 
capital of which is to go to my daughter.” 

“Madame has a daughter, and only an annuity!” 
cried Franyoise, hastening into the salon. 

The three old women looked at each other in amaze¬ 
ment. The one whose chin and nose were nearest 
together (thus revealing a certain superior hypocrisy 
and shrewdness) winked at the other two, and as soon 
as FranQoise had turned her back she made them a 
sign which meant, ‘She’s a sly one; she has got her¬ 
self down on three wills already.” 


382 


A Double Life. 


The three old women remained therefore where they 
were. But the abbe presently joined them, and after 
they had heard what he had to say, they hurried like 
witches down the stairs and out of the house, leaving 
Fran9oise alone with her mistress. 

Madame Crochard, whose sulferings were increasing 
cruelly, rang in vain for her maid, who was busy in 
making a search among the old woman’s receptacles, 
and contented herself by calling out from time to 
time: — 

“Yes, yes! I’m coming!—presently!” 

The doors of the closets and wardrobes were heard 
to open and shut, as if Frangoise were looking for 
some lottery-ticket or bank-note hidden among their 
contents. At this moment, when the crisis was im¬ 
pending, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille arrived. 

“Oh! my dear mother,” she cried, “how criminal 
I am not to have got here sooner! You suffer, and I 
did not know it! my heart never told me you were in 
pain! But here I am now — ” 

“Caroline.” 

“Yes.” 

“They brought me a priest.” 

“A doctor is what you want,” cried Caroline. 
“Frangoise, fetch a doctor. How could those ladies 
neglect to have a doctor ? ” 

“They brought me a priest,” reiterated Madame 
Crochard, with a sigh. 

“How she suffers! and not a thing to give her; no 
quieting medicine, nothing! ” 

The mother made an indistinct sign; but Caroline’s 
intelligent eye saw what was meant; she was instantly 
silent herself that her mother might speak. 


A Double Life, 


383 


“They brought me a priest,” said the old woman for 
the third time, “on pretence of confessing me. Be¬ 
ware for yourself, Caroline,” she cried out painfully, 
making a last effort; “the priest dragged out of me 
the name of your protector.” 

“How did you know it, my poor mother?” The 
old woman died while striving to look satirically at 
her daughter. If Caroline had observed her mother’s 
face at that moment she would have seen what no one 
will ever see, namely, — Death laughing. 

To understand the secrets underlying this introduc¬ 
tion to our present Scene, we must for a time forget 
these personages and turn back to the story of anterior 
events. The conclusion of that story will be seen to 
be connected with the death of Madame Crochard. 
These two parts will then form one history, which, by 
a law peculiar to Parisian life, had produced two 
distinct and separate lines of action. 


384 


A Double Life. 


11 . 


THE FIRST LIFE. 

Toward the close of November, 1805, a young law¬ 
yer, then about twenty-six years of age, was coming 
down the grand staircase of the mansion occupied by 
the arch-chancellor of the Empire, about three in 
the morning. When he reached the court-yard in his 
evening dress and saw a thin coating of ice, he gave 
an exclamation of dismay, through which, however, 
shone that sense of amusement which seldom deserts 
a Frenchman. Looking about him he saw no hack¬ 
ney-coaches, and heard in the distance none of those 
familiar sounds produced by the wooden shoes of Par¬ 
isian coachmen and their gruff voices. The tramp¬ 
ling of a few horses were heard in the court-yard, 
among them those of the chief-justice, whom the 
young man had just seen playing cards with Cam- 
baceres. Suddenly he felt the friendly clap of a hand 
upon his shoulder; looking round, he beheld the chief- 
justice and bowed to him. 

As the footman was letting down the steps of his 
carriage, the former legislator of the Convention had 
observed the young man^s predicament. 

“All cats are gray at night,” he said, gayly. “The 
chief-justice won’t compromise himself if he does 
take a barrister to his lodgings. Especially,” he 


A Double Life, 


385 


added, “if the said barrister is the nephew of an old 
colleague, and one of the lights of that great Council 
of State which gave the Code Napoleon to France.’' 

The young man got into the carriage, obeying an 
imperative sign from the chief law officer of imperial 
justice. 

“Where do you live?” asked the minister, while the 
footman awaited the order before he closed the door. 

“Quai des Augustins, monseigneur.” 

The horses started, and the young lawyer found 
himself tUe a tete with the minister, whom he had 
vainly endeavored to speak with both during and after 
the sumptuous dinner of Cambaceres; it was evident 
to his mind that the chief-justice had taken pains to 
avoid him during the whole evening. 

“Well, Monsieur de Granville, it seems to me that 
you are on the right road now — ” 

“So long as I am seated by your Excellency — ” 

“I’m not joking,” said the minister. “You were 
called to the bar two years ago, and since then your 
defence in the Simeuse and the Hauteserre trials have 
placed you very high.” 

“I have thought, until now, that my devotion to 
those unfortunate emigres did me an injury.” 

“You are very young,” said the minister, gravely. 
“But,” he added, after a pause, “you pleased the 
arch-chancellor to-night. Enter the magistracy of the 
bar; we back the right men there. The nephew of a 
man for whom Cambaceres and I feel the deepest 
interest ought not to remain a mere pleader for want 
of influence. Your uncle helped us to come safely 
through a stormy period, and such services must not 
be forgotten.” 


25 


386 


A Double Life» 


The minister was silent for a moment. “Before 
long,” he resumed, “I shall have three places vacai\t, 
in the Lower court and in the Imperial court of Paris; 
come and see me then, and choose the one that suits 
you. Until then, work hard; but do not come to my 
court. In the first place, I am overrun with work; 
and in the next, your rivals will guess your intentions 
and try to injure you. Cambaceres and I, by saying 
not one word to you to-night, were protecting you 
from the dangers of favoritism.” 

As the minister ended these words the carriage drew 
up on the Quai des Augustins. The young barrister 
thanked his generous protector with effusive warmth 
of heart, and rapped loudly on the door, for the keen 
north wind blew about his calves with wintry rigor. 
Presently an old porter drew the cord, and, as the 
young man entered, he called to him in a wheezy 
voice: — 

“Monsieur, here ’s a letter for you.” 

The young man took it, and tried, in spite of the 
cold, to read the writing by the paling gleam of a 
street-lamp. 

“It is from my father!” he exclaimed, taking his 
candlestick from the porter. He then ran rapidly up 
to his room and read the following letter: — 

“Take the mail coach, and, if you get here promptly, 
your fortune is made. Mademoiselle Ang41ique Bon- 
tems has lost her sister; she is now the only child, 
and we know that she does not hate you. Madame 
Bontems will probably leave her forty thousand francs 
a year in addition to her dowry. I have prepared your 


387 


A Dovhle Life, 

way. Onr friends may be surprised to see a noble 
family like ours ally itself with the Bontems. It 
is true that old Bontems was a bonnet rouge of the 
deepest dye, who got possession of a vast amount of 
the national property for almost nothing. But in the 
first place, what he got was the property of monks 
who will never return, and in the next, inasmuch as 
you have already derogated from our station in mak¬ 
ing yourself a barrister, I don’t see why we should 
shrink from making another concession to modern 
ideas. The girl will have three hundred thousand 
francs, and I will give you one hundred thousand; 
your mother’s property is worth a hundred and fifty 
thousand more, or nearly that. Therefore, my dear 
son, if you are willing to enter the magistracy, I see 
you in a fair way to become a senator like the rest 
of them. My brother-in-law, the councillor of State, 
will not lend a hand for that, I know, but as he is not 
married, his property will be yours some day. In 
reaching that position you perch high enough to watch 
events. 

“Adieu; I embrace you.” 

Young de Granville went to bed with his head full 
of projects, each one more delightful than the last. 
Powerfully protected by Cambaceres, the chief-justice, 
and his maternal uncle, who was one of the construc¬ 
tors of the Code, he was about to begin his career in 
an enviable position before the leading court of France 
and a member of that bar from which Napoleon was 
selecting the highest functionaries of his empire. And 
now, in addition to these prospects, came that of a 


388 


A DouUe Life, 


fortune sufficiently brilliant to enable him to sustain 
his rank, to which the puny revenue of five thousand 
francs which he derived from an estate left him by his 
mother would not have sufficed. 

To complete his dreams of ambition came those 
of personal happiness; he evoked the naive face of 
Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems, the companion of 
his childish plays. So long as he remained a mere 
child his father and mother had not opposed his inti¬ 
macy with the pretty daughter of their country neigh¬ 
bor; but when, during his short visits to Bayeiix at 
the time of his college vacations, his parents, bigoted 
aristocrats, noticed his affection for the young girl, 
they forbade him to think of her. For ten years past 
young Granville had seldom seen his former com¬ 
panion, whom he called his “little wife.” On the few 
occasions when the young pair had managed to evade 
the watchfulness of their families, they had scarcely 
done more than exchange a few words as they passed 
in the street or sat near each other in church. Their 
fortunate days were those when they met at some rural 
fete, called in Normandy an “assembly,” when they 
were able to watch each other furtively. During his 
last vacation, Granville had seen Angelique twice; 
and the lowered eyes and dejected look of his “little 
wife ” made him think she was oppressed by some 
secret despotism. 

The morning after receiving his father’s letter, the 
young lawyer appeared at the coach office in the rue 
Notre-Dame des Victoires, by seven o’clock, and was 
lucky enough to get a seat in the diligence then 
starting for Caen. 


A Double Life, 


389 


It was not without deep emotion that the new bar¬ 
rister beheld the towers of the cathedral of Bayeux. 
No hope of his life had yet been disappointed; his 
heart was opening to all the noblest sentiments which 
stir the youthful mind. After an over-long banquet 
of welcome with his father and a few old friends, the 
impatient young man was taken to a certain house in 
the rue Teinture, already well-known to him. Ilis 
heart beat violently as his father — who was still 
called in Bayeux the Comte de Granville — rapped 
loudly at a porte-cochere, the green paint of which 
was peeling off in scales. 

It was four in the afternoon. A young servant- 
girl, wearing a cotton cap, saluted the gentlemen with 
a bob courtesy, and replied that the ladies were at 
vespers, but would soon be home. The count and his 
son were shown into a lower room which served as a 
salon and looked like the parlor of a convent. Panels 
of polished walnut darkened the room, around which 
a few chairs covered with tapestry were symmetrically 
placed. The sole ornament of the stone chimney- 
piece was a green-hued mirror, from either side of 
which projected the twisted arms of those old-fashioned 
candelabra made at the time of the Peace of Utrecht. 
On the panelled wall opposite to the fireplace young 
Granville saw an enormous crucifix of ebony and 
ivory weathed with consecrated box. 

Though lighted by three windows, which looked upon 
a provincial garden of symmetrical square beds out¬ 
lined with box, the room was so dark that it was diffi¬ 
cult to distinguish on the wall opposite to the windows 
three church pictures, the work of some learned artist, 


390 


A Double Life, 


and bought, during the Revolution no doubt, by old 
Bontenis, who, in his capacity as head of the district, 
did not forget his own interests. 

From the carefully waxed floor to the curtains of 
green checked linen everything shone with monastic 
cleanliness. The heart of the young man was chilled 
involuntarily by this silent retreat in which Angelique 
lived. His recent experience of the brilliant salons 
of Paris in the vortex of continual fetes had easily 
effaced from his mind the dull and placid life of the 
provinces; the contrast was now so abruptly presented 
that he was conscious of a species of inward repug¬ 
nance. To come from a reception at Cambaceres, 
where life was so ample, where intellects had breadth 
and compass, where the imperial glory was so vividly 
reflected, and to fall suddenly into a circle of mean 
ideas was like being transported from Italy to Green¬ 
land. 

“To live here! why, it is not living,” he said in¬ 
wardly, as he looked round this salon of methodism. 

The old count, who noted the surprise on his son’s 
face, took his arm and led him to a window where 
there was still a little light, and while the woman lit 
the yellowed candles above the chimney-piece, he en¬ 
deavored to disperse the clouds that this aspect of 
dulness gathered on the young man’s brow. 

“Listen, my boy,” he said. “The widow of old 
Bontems is desperately pious, — when the devil gets 
old, you know! I see that the odor of sanctity is too 
much for you. "Well, now, here’s the truth. The old 
woman is besieged by priests; they have persuaded 
her that she has still time to go straight to heaven; 


A Double Life, 


391 


and so, to make sure of Saint Peter and his keys, she 
buys them. She goes to mass every day, takes the 
sacrament every Sunday that God creates, and amuses 
herself by restoring chapels. She has giveu the cathe¬ 
dral so many ornaments, albs, and copes, she has 
bedizened the canopy with such loads of feathers that 
the last procession of the Fete-Dieu brought a greater 
crowd than a hanging, merely to see the priests so 
gorgeously dressed and all their utensils regilt. This 
house, my boy, is holy ground. But I ’ve managed 
to persuade the foolish old thing not to give those 
pictures you see there to the church; one is a Do- 
menichino, the other two, Correggio and Andrea del 
Sarto, —worth a great deal of money.” 

“But Angelique? ” asked the young man, eagerly. 

“If you don’t marry her Angelique is lost,” replied 
the count. “Our good apostles keep advising her to 
be a virgin and martyr. I’ve had a world of trouble 
to rouse her little heart by talking of you,— ever since 
she became an only child. But can’t you see that, 
once married, you ’ll take her to Paris, and once there 
fetes, and marriage, and the theatre and the excite¬ 
ments of Parisian life will soon make her forget the 
confessionals and fasts, hair-shirts and masses on 
which these creatures feed ? ” 

“But won’t the fifty thousand francs a year derived 
from ecclesiastical property be given back ? ” 

“Ah! there’s the rub,” cried the count, with a 
knowing look. “In consideration of this marriage — 
for Madame Bontems’ vanity is not a little tickled at 
the idea of grafting the Bontems on the genealogical 
tree of the Granvilles — the said mother gives her 


392 


A Double Life, 


fortune outright to her daughter, reserving to herself 
only a life-interest in it. Of course the clergy oppose 
the marriage; but I have had the banns published; all 
is ready; in a week you ’ll be out of the claws of the 
old woman and her abbes. You ’ll get the prettiest 
girl in Bayeux, — a little duck who ’ll never give you 
any trouble, for she has principles. She has been 
mortified in the flesh, as they say in their jargon, by 
fasts and pra^^ers, and,” he added, in a low voice, 
“by her mother.” 

A rap discreetly given to the door silenced the 
count, who expected to see the two ladies enter. A 
young servant-lad with an air of important business 
entered, but, intimidated by the sight of two strangers, 
he made a sign to the woman, who went up to him. 
The lad wore a blue jacket with short tails which 
flapped about his hips, and blue and white striped 
trousers; his hair was cut round, and his face was 
that of a choir-boy, so expressive was it of that forced 
compunction which all the members of a devote house¬ 
hold acquire. 

“Mademoiselle Gatienne, do you know where the 
books for the Office of the Virgin are? The ladies of 
the congregation of the Sacre-Coeur are to make a 
procession this evening in the church.” 

Gatienne went to fetch the books. 

“Will it take long, my little friar?” asked the 
count. 

“Oh! not more than half an hour.” 

“Suppose we go and see it; lots of pretty women,” 
said the father to the son. “Besides, a visit to the 
cathedral won’t do us any harm ” 


A Double Life, 393 

The young lawyer followed his father with an irreso¬ 
lute air. 

“What’s the matter with you?” asked the count. 

“Well, the fact is, father, that I — I — I think I am 
right.” 

“But you haven't yet said anything.” 

“True; but I have been thinking that having saved 
a part of your former fortune you will leave it to me 
some day, and a long day hence I hope. Now if you 
are willing to give me, as you say, a hundred thousand 
francs to make this marriage, which may be a foolish 
one, I’d rather take fifty thousand to escape unhappi¬ 
ness and stay a bachelor. Even so I shall have a for¬ 
tune equal to that which Mademoiselle Bontems will 
bring me.” 

“Are you crazy? ” 

“No, father. Here is what I mean. The chief- 
justice promised me two days ago an appointment at 
the Paris bar. Fifty thousand francs joined to what 
I now possess, together with the salary of the place, 
will give me an income of twelve thousand francs; 
and I should undoubtedly have opportunities of for¬ 
tune far preferable to those of a marriage which may 
prove as poor in happiness as it is rich in means.” 

“I see plainly,” said his father, laughing, “that 
you never lived under the ancien regime. Did we of 
that day ever trouble ourselves about our wives, I ’d 
like to know?” 

“ But, father, marriage has become in our day — ” 
said the count, interrupting his son, 
“then all is true that my old friends of the emigration 
used to tell me? Has the Bevolution bequeathed us 


394 


A DouUe Life. 


nothing but life without gayety, infecting the youth 
of France with equivocal principles ? Are you going 
to talk to me, like my brother-in-law the Jacobin, of 
the Nation, and public morality, and disinterested¬ 
ness? Good heavens! without the Emperor’s sisters 
what would become of us ? ” 

The old man, still vigorous, whom the peasants on 
his property continued to call the Seigneur de Gran¬ 
ville, concluded these words as they entered the cathe¬ 
dral. Disregarding the sanctity of the place, he 
hummed an air from the opera of “Rose et Colas” 
while taking the holy water; then he led his son along 
the lateral aisles, stopping at each column to examine 
the rows of heads, lined up like those of soldiers on 
parade. 

The special office of the Sacrd-Coeur was about to 
begin. The ladies belonging to that society had 
gathered near the choir; the count and his son moved 
on to that part of the nave and stood leaning against 
a column in the darkest corner, whence they could see 
the entire mass of heads, which bore some resemblance 
to a meadow studded with flowers. 

Suddenly, within a few feet of young Granville, the 
sweetest voice he could conceive a human being to 
possess rose like the song of the flrst nightingale 
after a dreary winter. Though accompanied by other 
women’s voices and the tones of the organ, that voice 
stirred his nerves as if they had been suddenly assailed 
by the too rich, too keen notes of an harmonica. The 
Parisian turned round and saw a young girl whose face, 
from the bowed attitude of the head, was completely 
hidden in a large bonnet of some white material. He 


A Double Life, 


395 


felt it was from her that this clear melody proceeded; 
he fancied that he recognized Angelique in spite of 
the brown pelisse which wrapped her figure, and he 
nudged his father’s arm. 

“Yes, that’s she,” said the count, after looking in 
the direction his son had pointed out. 

The old gentleman showed by a gesture the pale 
face of an elderly woman whose eyes, encircled by 
dark lines, had already taken note of the strangers, 
though her deceitful glance seemed never to have left 
her prayer-book. 

Angelique raised her head toward the altar, as if to 
inhale the penetrating perfume of the incense, clouds 
of which were floating near the women. By the mys¬ 
terious gleams cast from the tapers, the lamp of the 
nave, and a few wax-candles fastened to the columns, 
the young man saw a sight which shook his resolu¬ 
tions. A white silk bonnet framed a face of charming 
regularity, ending the oval by a bow of satin ribbon 
beneath the dimpled chin. Above a narrow but deli¬ 
cate forehead the pale gold hair was parted into bands 
which came down upon her cheeks like the shadow of 
foliage on a bunch of flowers. The arches of the eye¬ 
brows were drawn with the precision so much admired 
on beautiful Chinese faces. The nose, almost aqui¬ 
line, possessed an unusual firmness of outline, and 
the lips were like two rosy lines traced by love’s most 
delicate implement. The eyes, of a pale, clear blue, 
were expressive of purity. 

Though Granville remarked a sort of rigid silence 
upon this charming face, he Could readily assign it to 
the feelings of devotion that were then in the girl’s 


396 


A Double Life, 


soul. The sacred words of the prayer passed from 
those rosy lips in a cloud, as it were, of perfume, 
which the cold of the church sent visibly into the 
atmosphere. Involuntarily, the young man bent for¬ 
ward to breathe that divine exhalation. The move¬ 
ment attracted the girl’s attention, and her eyes, 
hitherto fixed on the altar, turned toward Granville. 
The dim light showed him to her indistinctly, but she 
recognized the companion of her childhood; a memory 
more powerful than prayer brought a vivid brilliancy 
to her face, and she blushed. The young man quivered 
with joy as the emotions of another life were visibly 
vanquished by emotions of love, and the solemnity of 
the sanctuary seemed eclipsed by earthly memories. 
But his triumph was soon over. Angelique lowered 
her veil, recovered a calm countenance, and began 
once more to sing without a thrill in her voice that 
showed the least emotion. But Granville found him¬ 
self under the thraldom of a new desire, and all his 
ideas of prudence vanished. 

By the time the service was over his impatience had 
become so great that without allowing the ladies to 
return home he went up at once to greet his “little 
wife.” A recognition that was shy on both sides took 
place in the porch of the cathedral under the eyes of the 
faithful. Madame Bontems trembled with pride as she 
took the arm which the Comte de Granville, much 
provoked by his son’s scarcely decent impatience, 
was forced to offer her before the eyes of all present. 

During the fifteen days that now elapsed between 
the official presentation of the young Vicomte de Gran¬ 
ville as the accepted suitor of Mademoiselle Angelique 


397 


A Double Life, 

Bontems and the solemn day of the marriage, the 
young man came assiduously to visit his love in the 
gloomy parlor, to which he grew accustomed. These 
long visits were partly made for the purpose of watch¬ 
ing Augelique’s nature; for Granville’s prudence re¬ 
vived on the day after that first interview. He always 
found his future wife seated before a little table of 
Santa Lucia wood, employed in marking the linen 
of her trousseau. Angelique never spoke first of 
religion. If the young lawyer began to play with the 
beads of the handsome rosary which lay beside her in 
a crimson velvet bag, if he smiled as he looked at a 
relic which always- accompanied that instrument of 
devotion, Angelique would take the chaplet gently 
from his hands, giving him a supplicating look; then, 
without a word, she replaced it in its bag and locked 
them up. If, occasionally (to test her), Granville 
risked some objecting remark against certain prac¬ 
tices of religion, the pretty creature would listen to 
him with the settled smile of fixed conviction on her 
lips. 

“We must either believe nothing, or believe all that 
the Church teaches,” she replied. “Would you wish a 
girl without religion for the mother of your children ? 
No. What man would dare to judge between God 
and the unbelievers? Can I blame what the Church 
enjoins? ” 

Angelique seemed so inspired by fervent charity, 
Granville saw her turn such penetrating and beseech¬ 
ing glances on him, that he was several times tempted 
to embrace her religion. The profound conviction she 
felt of walking in the true and only path awoke in the 


398 


A Doulle Life. 


heart of the future magistrate certain doubts of which 
she endeavored to make the most. 

Granville then committed the enormous fault of 
mistaking the signs of an eager desire for those of 
love. Angelique was so pleased to unite the voice 
of her heart with that of her duty, in yielding to an 
inclination, she had felt from childhood, that the young 
man, misled, did not distinguish which of the two 
voices was the stronger. Are not all young men 
primarily disposed to trust the promises of a pretty 
face, and to infer beauty of soul from beauty of 
feature? An indefinable feeling leads them to believe 
that moral perfection must coincide with physical per¬ 
fection. If her religion had not permitted Angelique 
to yield to her feelings they would soon have dried up 
in her heart like a plant watered with an acid. Could 
a lover beloved become aware of the secret fanaticism 
of the girl’s nature? 

Such was the history of young Granville’s feelings 
during this fortnight, devoured like a book whose 
denouement is absorbing. Angelique, attentively 
studied, seemed to him the gentlest of womankind, 
and he even found himself giving thanks to Madame 
Bontems, who, by inculcating the principles of religion 
so strongly in her daughter, had trained her, as it 
were, to meet the trials of life. 

On the day appointed for the signing of the mar¬ 
riage contract Madame Bontems made her son-in-law 
swear solemnly to respect the religious practices of 
her daughter, to allow her absolute liberty of con¬ 
science, to let her take the sacrament and go to church 
and to confession as often as she pleased, and never 


A Louhle Life, 


399 


to oppose her in her choice of a confessor. At this 
solemn moment Angelique looked at her future hus¬ 
band with so pure and innocent an air that Granville 
did not hesitate to take the required oath. A smile 
flickered on the lips of the Abbe Fontanon, the pallid 
priest who directed the consciences of the family. 
With a slight motion of her head, Mademoiselle 
Bontems promised her lover never to make an ill use 
of that liberty of conscience. As for the old count, 
he whistled under his breath, to the tune of “Va-t-en 
voir s’ils viennent.” 

After the proper number of days granted to the 
retours de noces^ customary in the provinces, Gran¬ 
ville returned with his wife to Paris, where the young 
lawyer was now appointed as substitute to perform 
the duties of attorney-general to the imperial court 
of the Seine. When the new couple began to look 
about them for a residence, Angelique employed the 
influence possessed by every woman during the honey¬ 
moon to induce Granville to take a large apartment on 
the ground-floor of a house which formed the corner 
of the rue Vieille-du-Temple and the rue Neuve-Saint- 
Fran^ois. The principal reason for her choice was 
the fact that this house was close to the rue d’Orleans, 
in which was a church, and it was also near a small 
chapel in the rue Saint-Louis. 

“A good housekeeper makes proper provision,” said 
her husband, laughing. 

Angelique begged him to observe that the Marais 
quarter was in the neighborhood of the Palais de Jus¬ 
tice, and that the magistrates he had just called upon 
lived there. A large garden gave, for a young house- 


400 


A Double Life. 


hold, an additional value to the residence, — their chil¬ 
dren, “if heaven sent them any,” could play there; the 
court-yard was spacious, and the stables were fine. 
Granville would much have preferred a house in the 
Chaussee-d’Antin, where everything was young and 
lively, where the fashions appear in all their novelty, 
where the neighboring population is elegant, and the 
distance less to theatres and other sources of amuse¬ 
ment. But he found himself forced to yield to the 
persuasions of a young wife making her first request, 
and thus, solely to please her, he buried himself in 
the Marais. 

Granville’s new functions required an assiduous 
labor, all the more because they were new to him; he 
therefore gave his first thought to the furnishing of 
his study and the arrangement of his library, where 
he quickly installed himself in the midst of a mass 
of documents, leaving his young wife to direct the 
decoration of the rest of the house. He threw the 
responsibility of these purchases, usually a source of 
pleasure and tender recollection to young wives, the 
more willingly upon Angelique because he was ashamed 
of depriving her of his presence far more than the 
rules of the honeymoon permitted. But after he had 
thoroughly settled to his work, the young official 
allowed his wife to entice him out of his study and 
show him the effect of the furniture and decorations, 
which so far he had only seen piecemeal. 

If it is true, as the adage says, that we may judge 
of a woman by the door of her house, the rooms of 
that house must reveal her mind with even more 
fidelity. Whether it was that Madame de Granville 


A Double Life, 


401 


had given her custom to tradesmen without any taste, 
or that her own nature was inscribed on the quantity 
of things ordered by her, certain it is that the young 
husband was astonished at the dreariness and cold 
solemnity that reigned in the new home. He saw 
nothing graceful; all was discord; no pleasure was 
granted to the eye. The spirit of formality and petti¬ 
ness which characterized the parlor at Bayeux reap¬ 
peared in the Parisian salon beneath ceilings and 
cornices decorated with commonplace arabesques, the 
long convoluted strands of which were in execrable 
taste. 

With the desire to exonerate his wife, the young 
man retraced his steps and examined once more the 
long and lofty antechamber through which the apart¬ 
ment was entered. The color of the woodwork, chosen 
by his wife, was much too sombre; the dark-green 
velvet that covered the benches only added to the dul- 
ness of the room, — of no great importance, to be sure, 
except as it gave an idea of the rest of the house; 
just as we often judge of a man’s mind by his first 
words. An antechamber is a species of preface which 
announces all, but pledges nothing. The young man 
asked himself if his wife could really have chosen the 
lamp in the form of an antique lantern which hung in 
the middle of this barren hall, that was paved with 
black and white marble and hung with a paper imitat¬ 
ing blocks of stone with here and there green patches 
of simulated moss and lichen. A large but old barom¬ 
eter hung in the centre of one of the panels as if to 
make the barrenness of the place more visible. 

The husband looked at his wife; he saw her so 
26 


402 


A Double Life, 


satisfied with the red trimmings that edged the cotton 
curtains, so pleased with the barometer and the decent 
statue which adorned the top of a huge gothic stove, 
that he had not the barbarous courage to destroy 
those fond illusions. Instead of condemning his wife, 
Granville condemned himself; he blamed his neglect 
of his first duty, which was surely to guide the steps 
of a girl brought up in Bayeux and ignorant of Paris. 

After this specimen, the reader can easily imagine 
the decoration of the other rooms. What could be 
expected of a young woman who took fright at the 
legs of a caryatide, and rejected with disgust a cande¬ 
labrum or a bit of furniture if the nudity of an 
Egyptian torso appeared upon it. At this period the 
school of David had reached the apex of its fame; 
everything in France felt the influence of the correct¬ 
ness of his drawing and his love for antique forms, 
which made his painting, as one might say, a species 
of colored sculpture. But none of the inventions of 
imperial luxury obtained a place in Madame de Gran¬ 
ville’s home. The vast square salon retained the white 
paint and the faded gilding of the Louis XV. period, 
in which the architects were prodigal of those insuf¬ 
ferable festoons due to the sterile fecundity of the 
designers of that epoch. If the slightest harmony 
had reigned, if the articles of furniture had taken, in 
modern mahogany, the twisted forms brought into 
fashion by the corrupted taste of Boucher, Angelique’s 
house would merely have offered the odd contrast of 
young people living in the nineteenth century as if 
they belonged to the eighteenth; but no,—a mass 
of heterogeneous things produced the most ridiculous 


403 


A Double Life* 

anachronisms. The consoles, clocks, and candelabra 
represented warriors and their attributes, which the 
triumphs of the Empire had rendered dear to Paris. 
Greek helmets, Eoman broad-swords, shields due to 
military enthusiasm which now decorated the most 
pacific articles of furniture were little in accordance 
with the delicate and prolix arabesques, the delight 
of Madame de Pompadour. Pietistic devotion carries 
with it a sort of wearisome humility, which does not 
exclude pride. Whether from modesty or natural 
inclination, Madame de Granville seemed to have a 
horror for light or gay colors. Perhaps she thought 
that brown and purple comported best with the dignity 
of a magistrate. How could a young girl accustomed 
to an austere life conceive of those luxurious sofas, 
those elegant and treacherous boudoirs where pleasures 
and dangers take their rise ? 

The poor magistrate was in despair. By the tone 
of approbation with which he echoed the praises which 
his wife was bestowing upon herself she perceived that 
she had not pleased him; and she showed such grief 
at her failure that the amorous Granville saw another 
proof of love for him in her excessive pain, instead of 
seeing what it really was, — a wound to her self-love. 
A young girl suddenly taken from the mediocrity of 
provincial ideas, unaccustomed to the coquetry and 
elegance of Parisian life, could she have done better? 
The young husband preferred to believe that the choice 
of his wife had been guided by her tradesmen, rather 
than admit to himself what was really the truth. Less 
loving, he would have felt that the dealers, quick to 
divine the thoughts of their customers, must have 


404 


A Double Life. 


blessed heaven for sending them a young devote de¬ 
void of taste, who enabled them to get rid of things 
that were otherwise unsalable. As it was, he did his 
best to console his wife. 

“Happiness, my dear Angelique, doesn’t depend on 
furniture that is more or less elegant; it depends on 
the sweetness and kindness and love of a woman.” 

“It is my duty to love you; and no duty can ever 
please me as much,” replied Angelique, softly. 

Nature has put into a woman’s heart so great a 
desire to please, so great a need of love, that even in 
a bigoted young girl ideas of a future life and of 
working for salvation must succumb in some degree 
to the first joys of marriage. So that, since the month 
of April, the period at which they were married, until 
the beginning of the winter, the married pair had 
enjoyed a perfect union. Love and work have the 
virtue of making a man indifferent to external mat¬ 
ters. Obliged to spend half the day at the Palais de 
Justice, required to debate the solemn interests of the 
life or fate of men, Granville was less likely than 
other husbands to see or know what went on within 
his own household. If on Fridays his table was 
served with a maigre dinner, if by chance he asked 
for a dish of meat without obtaining it, his wife, 
forbidden by the Gospels to tell a lie, contrived by 
various little deceptions (allowable in the interests of 
religion) to make her premeditated purpose appear 
like an act of forgetfulness or the result of an empty 
market; she excused herself often by throwing the 
blame upon her cook, and even went so far on one 
occasion as to scold him for it. At this period young 


A Double Life, 


405 


magistrates were not in the habit of keeping fasts, 
Ember-days, and vigils as they do in our time; Gran¬ 
ville therefore did not at first notice the periodicity of 
his maigre meals, which his wife, moreover, took wily 
care to make extremely delicate by means of teal, 
wild-duck, and fish, the amphibious flesh of which, or 
the careful seasoning, deceived his taste. 

Thus the young magistrate lived, without being 
aware of it, in an orthodox manner, and earned his 
salvation unknown to himself. On week-days he did 
not know if his wife went to church or not. On Sun¬ 
days, by a very natural courtesy, he accompanied her 
to mass as if to reward her for occasionally sacri¬ 
ficing vespers to be with him; he therefore did not at 
first realize the rigidity of his wife’s pious habits. 
Theatres being intolerable in summer on account of 
the heat, Granville had no occasion to ask his wife 
to go there; the serious question of theatre-going was, 
therefore, not mooted. In the first months of a mar¬ 
riage to which a man has been led by the beauty of 
a young girl, he is never exacting in his demands; 
youth is more eager than discriminating. How could 
he see the coldness, the reserve, the frigidity of a 
woman to whom he attributed a warmth of enthusiasm 
equal to his own ? It is necessary to reach a certain 
conjugal tranquillity before perceiving that a true 
devote accepts a man’s love with her arms crossed. 
Granville, thus in the dark, regarded himself as suflS- 
ciently happy until a fatal event came to influence the 
future of his marriage. 

In the month of September, 1808, the canon of the 
cathedral at Bayeux, who had formerly directed the 


406 


A Double Life, 


consciences of Madame Bontems and her daughter 
came to Paris, led by an ambition to obtain a post 
in one of the great churches, no doubt considering it 
as the stepping-stone to a bishopric. In recovering 
his former power over his lamb he shuddered, as he 
said, to find her already so changed by the air of 
Paris; and he set himself to the work of drawing her 
back to his chilly fold. Frightened by the remon¬ 
strances of the ex-canon, — a man about thirty- 
eight years old, who brought into the midst of the 
enlightened and tolerant clergy of Paris the harsh¬ 
ness of provincial Catholicism, with its inflexible big¬ 
otry, whose manifold exactions are so many shackles 
to timid souls, — Madame de Granville repented of 
her sins and returned to her Jansenism. 

It would be wearisome to describe, step by step, the 
incidents which led insensibly to unhappiness within 
the bosom of the Granville household; it wdll perhaps 
suffice to relate the principal facts without being scru¬ 
pulous to give them their proper order and sequence. 
The first misunderstanding between the young couple 
was, however, sufficiently striking to be carefully 
related here. 

When Granville wished to take his wife into society 
she never refused any staid receptions, or dinners, 
concerts, and assemblies at the houses of magistrates 
ranking above her husband in the judicial hierarchy; 
but she contrived, for a long time, under pretext of a 
headache or other illness, to avoid a ball. One day 
Granville, impatient at last with these wilful excuses, 
suppressed the written notice of a ball at the house of 
a councillor of State, and deceived his wife by a ver- 


A Double Life, 


407 


bal invitation. When the evening came her health 
was not in question, and he took her, for the first time, 
to a really magnificent fete. 

“My dear,” he said, after their return, observing 
her depressed air, which annoyed him, “your position 
as my wife, the rank to which you are entitled in 
society, and the fortune you enjoy, impose obligations 
upon you which you cannot escape. You ought to go 
with me into society, especially to large balls, and 
appear there in a suitable manner.” 

“But, my dear friend, what was there so unsuitable 
in my dress ? ” 

“I did not refer to your dress, my dear, but to your 
manner. When a young man came up to speak to 
you, you grew so distant that a foolish observer might 
have thought that you feared for your virtue. You 
seemed to think that a smile would compromise you; 
you really appeared to be asking God to forgive the 
sins of the persons who surrounded you. The world, 
my dear angel, is not a convent. As you yourself 
have mentioned dress, I will also say that it is a duty 
in your position to follow the fashions and usages of 
society.” 

“Do you wish me to show my shape like those 
brazen women I saw last night, who wore their gowns 
so low that any one could plunge his immodest eyes on 
their bare shoulders and — ” 

“There’s a difference, my dear, between uncovering 
the whole bust and giving grace and charm to the 
figure,” said the husband, interrupting the wife. 
“You wore three rows of tulle ruches swathing your 
neck up to your chin. You really seem to have begged 


408 


A Double Life, 


your dressmaker to destroy the grace of your shoulders 
and the outline of your bust with as much care as a 
coquettish woman puts into the choice of becoming 
garments. Your neck was buried under such innu¬ 
merable pleats and folds that people laughed last night 
at your affected modesty. You would be horrified if 
I repeated to you the unpleasant things that were said 
of you.’* 

“Those to whom such obscenities are pleasing will 
not be burdened by the weight of my sins,” replied 
the young wife, dryly. 

“You did not dance,” said Granville. 

“I shall never dance,” she replied. 

“But if I say that you ought to dance? ” said the 
magistrate, hastily. “Yes, you ought to follow the 
fashions, wear fiowers in your hair, and diamonds. 
Eeflect, my dear, that rich people, and we are rich, 
are bound to maintain the luxury of a State. Is n’t it 
better to keep the manufactories busy and prosperous 
than spend your money in alms, through the clergy ? ” 

“You talk like a politician,” said Angelique. 

“And you like a churchman,” he replied, sharply. 

The discussion now became very bitter. Madame 
de Granville put into her answers, which were very 
gentle, and uttered in tones as clear as the tinkling of 
a bell, a stolid obstinacy which betrayed the sacerdotal 
influence. She claimed the rights which Granville’s 
promise secured to her, and told him that her con¬ 
fessor had expressly forbidden her to go to balls. In 
reply Granville endeavored to prove to her that the 
priest was exceeding the rights of his office according 
to the regulations of the Church itself. 


A Double Life. 


409 


This odious dispute was renewed with far more 
violence and acrimony on both sides when Granville 
wished his wife to accompany him to the theatre. 
Finally the husband, for the sole purpose of breaking 
down the pernicious influence exercised by the con¬ 
fessor, brought the quarrel to such a pitch that Madame 
de Granville, driven to bay, wrote to the court of 
Rome to inquire whether a woman could, without 
losing her salvation, wear a low dress and go to the 
theatre to please her husband. An answer was 
promptly returned by the venerable Pius VII., who 
strongly condemned the wife’s resistance and blamed 
the confessor. This letter, a true conjugal catechism, 
seemed as if it were dictated by the tender voice of 
Fenelon, whose grace and sweetness emanated from 
it. “A wife,” it said, “is in her right place wherever 
her husband takes her.” “If she commits a sin by 
his order, it is not she who will answer for that 
sin.” These two passages in the pope’s homily made 
Madame de Granville and her confessor accuse the 
pontiff of irreligion. 

Before the letter arrived, Granville had discovered 
the strict observance of the ecclesiastical laws of fast¬ 
ing, which his wife now imposed upon him more 
openly; and he gave orders to the servants that he 
himself was to be served with meat daily. Notwith¬ 
standing the extreme displeasure which this order 
caused his wife, Granville, to whom feast or fast 
was of little real consequence, maintained it with 
virile firmness. The feeblest of thinking creatures is 
wounded in his inmost being when another will than 
his own imposes secretly a thing he would have done 


410 


A Double Life. 


of his own monition willingly. Of all tyrannies, the 
most odious is that which deprives the soul of the 
merit of its actions and its thoughts; the mind is made 
to abdicate without having reigned. The sweetest 
word to say, the tenderest feeling to express, die on 
our lips when we think they are compulsory. 

Before long the young magistrate gave up receiving 
his friends either at dinner or in the evening; the 
house soon seemed to be one of mourning. A house¬ 
hold which has a devote for its mistress assumes a 
peculiar aspect. The servants under the eye of such a 
woman are chosen from among those self-called pious 
persons who have a physiognomy of their own. Just 
as a jovial youth entering the gendarmerie acquires 
the gendarme face, so domestic servants who are 
trained to the practice of devotion contract a uniform 
and peculiar countenance, a habit of lowering the eyes, 
of maintaining an attitude of compunction, a livery of 
cant, in short, which humbugs wear marvellously well. 

Besides this, devotes form among themselves a 
species of republic; they all know one another; their 
servants, whom they recommend within their own 
circle, are like a race apart, preserved by them as 
horse-breeders admit to their stables only such animals 
\ as possess a clear pedigree. The more a so-called 
unbeliever examines the home of a devote^ the more 
he finds that everything about it is stamped with an 
indescribable unpleasantness. He finds there the 
symptoms of avarice and mystery that characterize 
the house of a usurer; also that perfumed dampness of 
incense which makes the chilly atmosphere of chapels. 
The paltry rigor, the poverty of ideas which appear 


A Double Life, 


411 


in all things can only be expressed by the one word 
bigotry. In these repellent, implacable houses bigotry 
is painted on the walls, the furniture, in the pictures, 
the engravings; the talk is bigoted, the silence is 
bigoted, the faces are bigoted. The transformation 
of things and men into bigotry is an inexplicable 
mystery; but the fact exists. Every one must have 
observed that bigots do not walk, or sit down, or 
speak, as walk, sit, and speak the rest of the world: 
in their presence others are embarrassed; no one 
laughs; all things are rigid, stiff, uniform, from the 
cap of the mistress of the house to her pincushion 
with its even rows of pins; glances are not open or 
frank; the servants seem shadows; the lady of the 
house sits enthroned on ice. 

One morning poor Granville became aware, with 
pain and sadness, of the symptoms of bigotry now 
established in his home. We find in the world certain 
social spheres where the same effects exist, though 
produced by other causes. Ennui draws around these 
unhappy homes a circlet of iron which encloses the 
horrors of the desert and the infinitude of the void. 
A household is then, not a tomb, but something worse, 
— a convent. 

In the centre of this glacial sphere the magistrate 
now contemplated his wife without passion or illu¬ 
sion; he remarked with keen regret the narrowness of 
her ideas, betrayed externally by the way the hair 
grew on the low forehead which was hollow beneath 
the temples. He saw in the perfect regularity of her 
features something, it is hard to say what, of fixed¬ 
ness and rigidity which made him almost hate the 


412 


A Double Life^ 


specious gentleness by which he had been won. He 
felt that the day might come when those thin lips 
would say to him in presence of some misfortune: 
“It is sent for your good, my friend.’^ 

Madame de Granville’s face was gradually assuming 
a wan complexion and a stern expression which killed 
all joy in those who came in contact with her. Was 
this change brought about by the ascetic habits of a 
piety which is no more true piety than avarice is 
economy; or was it produced by the dryness natural 
to a bigoted soul ? It would be difficult to say; beauty 
without passion is perhaps an imposture. The imper¬ 
turbable smile which this young woman trained upon 
her face as she looked at her husband, seemed to be 
a sort of jesuitized formula of happiness by which she 
believed she satisfied the demands of marriage. Her 
charity wounded, her passionless beauty seemed a 
monstrosity to those who observed her; the softest of 
her speeches made them impatient, for she was not 
obeying a feeling, but a sense of duty. 

There are certain defects which, in a woman, will 
often yield to lessons of experience or to the infiu- 
ence of a husband, but nothing can ever overcome the 
tyranny of false religious ideas. An eternity of hap¬ 
piness to win, put into the scales against earthly 
pleasure, will always triumph, and make all things 
bearable. May not this be called deified egotism, the 
/beyond the grave? Even the pope was condemned 
before the judgment-seat of the canon and the young 
devote. The impossibility of being wrong is a feeling 
that ends by superseding all others in these despotic 
souls. 


A Double Life. 


413 


Thus, for some time past, an underground struggle 
had been going on between the opposing ideas of hus¬ 
band and wife, but Granville was now weary of a 
battle which he saw would never cease. What hus¬ 
band could bear incessantly before him the sight of 
a face hypocritically affectionate, and the annoyance 
of categorical remonstrances opposed to his slightest 
will? How treat a woman who uses your passion to 
protect her own want of feeling, who seems resolved 
to remain inexorably gentle, and prepares with delight 
to play the part of victim, regarding her husband as 
an instrument of God, —a scourge, whose flagellatious 
are to spare her those of purgatory ? But what descrip¬ 
tion can give an idea of these women who make virtue 
odious by distorting the precepts of a religion which 
Saint John summed up in one, namely: “Love one 
another? ” 

Thus, in that domestic existence which needs so 
much expansion, Granville’s life was now companion¬ 
less. Nothing in his home was sympathetic to him. 
The large crucifix placed between his wife’s bed and 
his own was like a symbol of his destiny. Did it not 
represent the killing of a divine thing, — the death of 
a God-man in all the beauty of life and youth? The 
ivory of that cross was less cold than Angelique as 
she sacrificed her husband in the name of virtue. The 
misery of the young magistrate became intense; he 
went alone into the world, and to theatres; his wife 
saw only duties, and pleasures to be shunned in mar¬ 
riage, but what could he say ? he could not even com¬ 
plain. He possessed a young and pretty wife, attached 
to her duties, virtuous, — the model, in fact, of all the 


414 


A Double Life, 


virtues. She brought him a child every year; nursed 
her children, and trained them up to the highest prin¬ 
ciples. Her charitable soul was thought angelic. The 
elderly women who composed the society in which she 
lived (for in those days young women had not as yet 
taken it into their heads to make a fashion of devo¬ 
tion) admired Madame de Granville’s zealous piety, 
and regarded her, if not as a virgin, at least as a 
martyr. 

Insensibly, Granville, overwhelmed with toil, de¬ 
prived of pleasures, weary of society where he wan¬ 
dered alone, fell, by the time he was thirty-two, into 
a condition of painful apathy. Life became odious 
to him. Having too high a sense of his obligations 
to allow himself to fall into irregular ways, he en¬ 
deavored to stupefy himself by toil, and began a great 
work on a legal subject. But he did not long enjoy 
that form of monastic peace on which he had counted. 

When the pious Angelique saw that he deserted 
society and worked at home with a sort of regularity, 
she thought the time had come to convert him. To 
feel that her husband’s views were not Christian was 
a genuine grief to her; she often wept at the thought 
that if he died suddenly he would perish in his sin, 
and she could then have no hope of saving him from 
the flames of eternal punishment. Henceforth Gran¬ 
ville became a target for the petty thrusts, the paltry 
arguments, the narrow views by which his wife, who 
thought she had won a first victory by withdrawing 
him from the world, endeavored to obtain a second by 
bringing him into the pale of the Church. 

This was the last drop to his cup of misery. What 


A DouUe Life, 


415 


could be more intolerable than a dumb struggle in 
which the obstinacy of a narrow mind endeavored to 
subdue the intelligence of the lawyer; what more hor¬ 
rible to bear than this acrid nagging to which a gen¬ 
erous nature would far prefer an open stab? Granville 
deserted his house, where all was now unbearable to 
him. His children, subjected to the cold despotism 
of their mother, were not allowed to accompany him 
to the theatre; he was literally unable to give them a 
single pleasure without drawing down upon them a 
rebuke from his wife. This man, naturally loving, 
was driven into a condition of indifference, of selfish 
egotism, which to him was worse than death. 

He saved his sons as soon as possible from the hell 
of this life by sending them to school at an early age, 
and by maintaining firmly his right to manage them. 
He did not interfere, or interfered very rarely, between 
the mother and her daughters, though he resolved to 
marry the latter as soon as they attained to a mar¬ 
riageable age. If he had taken a more decided and 
violent course nothing would have justified it. His 
wife, supported by the formidable circle of pious 
dowagers among whom she lived, could have shown 
his injustice to all the world. Granville had literally 
no other resource than a life of isolation. Crushed 
under the tyranny of these misfortunes, his very feat¬ 
ures, withered and hardened by grief and toil, became 
displeasing to himself; he shrank from all intercourse 
with others, especially with women of society, from 
whom he despaired of gaining any comfort. 

The didactic history of this sad household during 
the fifteen years between 1806 and 1821 offers no 


416 


A Double Life, 


scene that is worthy of being related. Madame de 
Granville remained precisely the same woman after 
she had lost her husband’s heart as she was in the 
days when she called herself happy. She made no- 
venas, praying God and the saints to enlighten her 
mind as to the faults by which she displeased her 
husband, and to show her the means of bringing back 
that erring sheep into the fold. But the more fervent 
her prayers, the less her husband appeared in his 
home. For five years past Granville, now attorney- 
general under thh Restoration, had taken up his abode 
on the ground-floor of his house to avoid the necessity 
of living with his wife. Every morning a scene took 
place which (if we may believe the gossip of society) 
occurs in the bosom of many a family, — produced by 
incompatibility of temper, or by mental and physical 
diseases, or by antagonisms which bring the results 
related in this history to many a marriage. Every 
morning at eight o’clock the countess’s waiting- 
woman, looking much like a nun, rang at the door of 
the count’s apartment. Shown into the salon adjoin¬ 
ing the magistrate’s study, she gave to the valet, and 
always in the same tone, this stereotyped message: — 

^‘Madame begs to know if Monsieur le comte has 
passed a good night, and whether she shall have the 
pleasure of breakfasting with him.” 

“Monsieur,” the valet would reply, after conveying 
the message to his master, “presents his regards to 
Madame la comtesse and begs her to excuse him; an 
important affair obliges him to go to the Palais at 
once.” 

A few moments later the maid would reappear to 


A Double Life, 


417 


ask in Madame’s name if she should have the pleasure 
of seeing Monsieur le cointe before he went out. 

“He has gone already,” the valet would reply, 
though the count’s carriage might be still in the court¬ 
yard. 

This ambassadorial dialogue was a daily ceremony. 
Granville’s valet, who, being a favorite with his mas¬ 
ter, was the cause of more than one quarrel in the 
household on account of his irreligion and moral 
laxity, would sometimes take the message as a matter 
of form into the study when the count was not there, 
bringing back the accustomed answer. The afflicted 
wife would often watch for her husband’s return and 
go down to the vestibule and place herself in his way 
to awaken his remorse. This petty teasing, charac¬ 
teristic of monastic life, was a strong feature in the 
nature of this woman, who, though she was only thirty- 
five, now looked to be over forty. 

’The presidency of a royal court in the provinces 
was offered to the Comte de Granville, who stood well 
in favor with the King, but he begged the ministry 
to allow him to remain in Paris. This refusal, the 
reasons for which were,known only to the Keeper of 
the Seals, suggested various strange conjectures among 
the intimates of the countess, and more especially to 
her confessor. Granville, the possessor of a hun¬ 
dred thousand francs a year, belonged to one of the 
highest families in Normandy; his appointment to a 
royal court was a first step to the peerage. Why, 
then, such a lack of ambition? Why had he given up 
his great work on Law? Whence this unnatural life 
which had made him for the last five years almost a 

27 


418 


A Double Life, 


stranger to his home, his duties, and to all that ought 
to be dear to him? The countess’s confessor, who 
relied on the support of the families where he ruled to 
advance him to a bishopric, had met with disappoint¬ 
ment from Granville, who refused him his influence; 
and he now aspersed him with suppositions. 

“If Monsieur le comte,” he said, “was reluctant 
to live in the provinces, it was probably because he 
feared the necessity of having to lead a moral life. 
The position of a chief-justice would force him to live 
with his wife and abandon all illicit connections. A 
woman as pure as the Comtesse de Granville could 
never overlook the fact, if it came to her knowledge, 
of her husband’s irregularities. 

Angelique’s dowager friends did not leave her in 
ignorance of these remarks, which, alas! were not 
groundless; the effect upon her was that of a thunder¬ 
bolt. 

Without any just ideas of life or of society, igno¬ 
rant of love and its madness, Madame de Granville 
was so far from supposing that marriage could bring 
other troubles than those which alienated her from her 
husband, that she thought him incapable of the faults 
which are the crimes of married life. When the count 
no longer sought her society and lived apart, she 
imagined that the calmness of such a life was that of 
nature. She had given him all the affection her heart 
was capable of giving to a man, and these conjectures 
of her confessor completely destroyed all the illusions 
in which she had lived up to that moment. At first, 
therefore, she defended her husband; although, at the 
same time, she was unable to put away the suspicions 



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A Double Life, 


419 


so cleverly introduced into her mind. This struggle 
caused such ravages in her feeble brain that before long 
her health gave way and she fell a victim to slow fever. 

These events took place during the Lent of 1822, 
but her piety would not relax its austerities, and she 
finally reached a state of exhaustion in which her very 
life seemed threatened. Granville’s indifference to 
her condition wounded her deeply. His attentions 
were more like those that a nephew compels himself to 
pay to an uncle. Though the countess tried to greet 
her husband with pleasant words, and renounced for 
the time being her system of nagging remonstrance, 
the sourness of the devote was still perceptible, and 
often destroyed by a few words the work of days. 

Toward the end of May, the balmy breath of spring 
and a more nourishing diet than Lent allowed brought 
back some strength to Madame de Granville. One 
morning, on her return from mass, she seated herself 
on a stone bench in her little garden, where the warm 
caresses of the sunshine recalled to her the pleasant 
early days of her marriage. Her mind took in at a 
glance the whole of her married life, striving to see 
in what possible way she could have failed in her 
duty as wife and mother. While she sat there the 
Abbe Fontanon appeared, in a state of very evident 
agitation. 

“Has anything happened to distress you, father?” 
she asked, with filial solicitude. 

“Ah! I would that all the misfortunes which the 
hand of God is laying heavily upon you, were laid 
on me,” said the Norman priest. “But, my worthy 
friend, these are trials to which you must submit.” 


420 


A Double Life. 


“Can any chastisement be greater than that to which 
the Divine Providence has already subjected me, using 
my husband as the instrument of its wrath? ” 

“ Prepare yourself, my daughter, for greater sorrow 
than any you have hitherto undergone.” 

“Then I thank God that he deigns to make use of 
you to lay his will upon me,” said the countess, “fol¬ 
lowing the vials of his wrath with the treasures of his 
mercy, even as he showed to Hagar in the desert a 
living spring.” 

“He allots your penalties to the weight of your sins 
and the measure of your resignation,” said the priest. 

“ Speak, father; I am ready to hear all; ” so say¬ 
ing, the countess raised her eyes to heaven; then she 
said again, “Speak, Monsieur Fontanon.” 

“For the last seven years Monsieur de Granville 
has committed the crime of adultei’y with a concubine 
by whom he has two children. He has spent upon 
this illicit household more than five hundred thousand 
francs, which ought to have belonged to his legitimate 
family.” 

“I must see that with my own eyes before I believe 
it,” said the countess. 

“No, be very careful to avoid that,” said the 
priest. “My daughter, it is your duty to forgive, and 
to wait, in prayer, till God sees fit to change your 
husband’s heart. You must not employ such human 
means against him.” 

The long conversation which followed produced a 
violent change in the whole manner and appearance 
of the countess. She dismissed the confessor at last, 
and appeared with a flushed face before her servants. 


A Double Life, 


421 


who were frightened by an activity which seemed 
almost insane. She ordered her carriage, then she 
countermanded it, ordered it again, and changed her 
mind a score of times within an hour. Finally, how¬ 
ever, she appeared to come to a decisive resolution, 
and started from home at three o’clock, leaving her 
household amazed at her sudden action. 

“Will your master be home to dinner? ” she asked 
the valet (to whom she usually never spoke) as she 
left the house. 

“No, madame.’’ 

“Did he go to the Palais this morning? ” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“To-day is Monday? ” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“Is the Palais open on Mondays now? ” 

“The devil take her! ” thought the valet as the 
countess got into her carriage and gave the order: 
“Kue Taitbout.” 

Caroline de Beliefeuille was weeping; beside her 
was Roger, holding one of her hands in both of his. 
He was silent, looking alternately at little Charles, 
who could not understand his mother’s grief, at the 
cradle where the baby Eugenie was sleeping, and then 
at the face of his friend, where the tears were falling 
like rain on a sunshiny day. 

“Yes, my angel,” said Roger, after a long silence, 
“that is the truth; I am married. But some day, 1 
hope, I may have but one life, one home. My wife 
is in wretched health; I do not wish her death; but if 
it pleases God to take her, I think she will be happier 


422 


A Double Life, 


in paradise than she has been in a world the pains and 
pleasures of which have never touched her.” 

“I hate that woman! How could she make you so 
unhappy? And yet it is to that misfortune that I owe 
my happiness.” 

Her tears ceased suddenly. 

“Caroline, let us hope on,” cried Roger, with a kiss. 
“Never mind what the abbe said to you. Though that 
confessor is a dangerous man on account of his influ¬ 
ence in the Church, if he attempts to disturb our 
relation I shall — ” 

“What?” 

“Take you to Italy; I will flee — ” 

A cry coming from the next room made them start; 
they both rushed there, and found Madame de Gran¬ 
ville fainting on the floor. When she recovered her 
senses she gave a deep sigh on seeing herself between 
her husband and her rival, whom she pushed aside 
with an involuntary gesture of contempt. 

Caroline rose to go. 

“Stay where you are,” said the count. “This is 
your house.” 

Then he took his fainting wife in his arms and car¬ 
ried her to her carriage, into which he followed her. 

“What has made you desire my death? Why should 
you wish to flee me ? ” she asked, in a weak voice, 
looking at her husband with as much indignation as 
grief. “Was I not young? Did you not think me 
beautiful? What blame can you lay at my door? 
Did I ever deceive you? Have I not been a good and 
virtuous wife to you? My heart has held no image 
but yours; my ears have listened to no voice but 


A Double Life, 


423 


yours. What duty did I fail to perform? Have I 
ever refused you anything ? ” 

“Yes; happiness,” replied the count, in a firm voice. 
“There are two ways of serving God. Some Chris¬ 
tians imagine that by entering a church and saying a 
Pater Noster, by hearing mass at stated times and 
abstaining from sinful acts they must win heaven; 
such persons go to hell; they have never loved God 
for God’s sake; they do not worship him as he seeks 
to be worshipped; they have made him no sacrifice. 
Though gentle apparently, they are harsh to their 
neighbor; they see the law, the letter, but not the 
spirit. That is how you have acted with your earthly 
husband. You have sacrificed my happiness to your 
salvation. You were absorbed in the contemplation 
of that when I came to you with eager heart; you wept 
and fasted when you might have eased and brightened 
my toil; you have never satisfied one pleasurable desire 
of my life.” 

“But if those desires were criminal,” cried the 
countess, hotly, “was I to lose my soul to please you? ” 
“That sacrifice a more loving woman has had the 
courage to make,” replied the count, coldly. 

“Oh, God!” she said, weeping. “Thou hearest 
him! Was he worthy of the prayers and penances in 
which I have spent my life to redeem his sins and my 
own ? Of what good is virtue ? ” 

“To win heaven, my dear; you could not be the 
bride of heaven and of man both; it was bigamy. 
You should have chosen between a husband and a con¬ 
vent. Instead of that, for the sake of your future 
salvation, you have robbed your soul and mine of 


424 


A Double Life 


love, of all the devotion God bestows upon a woman; 
of the earthly emotions you have kept but one — and 
that is hatred.” 

“Have I not loved you? ” 

“No.” 

“What, then, is love?” she said, involuntarily. 

‘^Love, my dear?” said Granville, with a sort of 
ironical surprise. “You are not in a condition to 
understand it. The sky of Normandy is never that 
of Spain. Perhaps the question of climate is really 
one of the secrets of unhappiness. Love is a mutual 
yielding to each other’s likes and dislikes and 
dividing them. Love finds pleasure in pain, in sacri¬ 
ficing to another the opinion of the world, self-love, 
self-interest, religion even, —regarding all such offer¬ 
ings as grains of incense burned on the altar of an 
idol; that is love.” 

“The love of a ballet-girl,” said the countess, hor¬ 
rified; “such passions cannot last; they leave noth¬ 
ing behind them but cinders and ashes, remorse and 
despair. A wife should give her husband, as I think, 
true friendship, an equable warmth, an — ” 

“You talk of warmth as negroes talk of ice,” inter¬ 
rupted the count, with a sardonic smile. “Remember 
that the humblest wild-flower is more to us than a rose 
with thorns. But,” he added, “I will do you justice. 
You have so firmly maintained the line of conduct pre¬ 
scribed by law that, in order to show you where you 
have failed toward me, I should have to enter upon 
certain details which your dignity would not permit, 
and say certain things which w^ould seem to you the 
reverse of moral.” 


A Douhle Life, 


425 


“Do you dare to speak of morality, —you who are 
leaving the house of a mistress where you have squan¬ 
dered the property of your children in debauchery ? ” 
cried the countess. 

“Madame, I stop you there,” said the count, coolly, 
interrupting his wife. “If Mademoiselle de Belle- 
feuille is rich it is not at my expense. My uncle was 
master of his fortune; he had many heirs. During 
his lifetime, and solely out of regard for a young 
woman whom he considered in the light of a niece, 
he gave her the estate of Beliefeuille.” 

“Such conduct is worthy of a Jacobin! ” cried the 
pious Angelique. 

“You forget that your father was one of those Jaco¬ 
bins whom you, a woman, condemn with so little 
charity,” said the count, sternly. “The citizen Bon- 
tems was signing death-warrants at the time when my 
uncle was renderirig great services to France. ” 

Madame de Granville made no reply. But, after a 
moment’s silence, the recollection of what she had just 
seen awoke the jealousy which nothing can quench in 
a woman’s soul, and she said, in a low voice, as if 
speaking to herself; — 

“ How can a man lose his soul and that of others in 
this way ? ” 

“Ah! madame,” said the count, weary of the fruit¬ 
less conversation, “perhaps it is you who will have to 
answer for all this.” 

These words made the countess tremble. 

“ But you will no doubt be excused in the eyes of 
that indulgent Judge who understands our faults,” he 
added, “ in virtue of the sincerity with which you have 


426 


A Double Life, 


wrought the ruin of my life. I do not hate you; I 
hate those who have distorted your heart and mind. 
You have prayed for me doubtless as sincerely as 
Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille has given me her heart 
and crowned me with love. You should have been 
both mistress and saint. Do me the justice to 
acknowledge that I have not been either wicked or 
debauched. My morals are pure. But alas! at the 
end of seven years’ wretchedness, the need of being 
happy led me, almost insensibly, to love another 
woman, and to create for myself another home than 
mine. Do not think I am the only man in Paris who 
has done this. Thousands of other husbands are 
driven, by one cause or another, to lead this double 
life.” 

“O God! ” cried the countess, “how heavy is the 
cross I have to bear! If the husband whom thou 
gavest me in thy wrath can be happy only through my 
death, recall me to thy bosom! ” 

“Had you shown those admirable feelings of self- 
sacrihce earlier,” said the count, coldly, “we should 
still be happy.” 

“Well, then,” said Angelique, bursting into tears, 
“forgive me if I have really done wrong. Yes, I am 
ready to obey you in all things, certain that you will 
only ask that which is natural and right. Henceforth 
I will be to you whatever you desire.” 

“If it is your intention to force me to say that I no 
longer love you, I must have the dreadful courage to 
say it. Can I control my heart? Can I efface in one 
moment the memories of fifteen years of misery? I 
love no more. Those words enfold a mystery as deep 


A Double Life, 


427 


as that contained in those other words, ‘I love/ 
Esteem, respect, regard may be obtained, and lost, and 
won again, but love, ah, never! I might goad myself 
a thousand years and it could not live again, especially 
for one who has wilfully destroyed her charm.” 

“Ah! Monsieur le comte, I sincerely hope the day 
may never come when those words shall be said to 
you by her you love, in the tone and manner with 
which you say them now.” 

“Will you come with me to-night to the Opera and 
wear a ball dress? ” 

The shudder of repugnance which that sudden 
demand produced was her answer to the question. 


428 


A Double Life. 


III. 

RESULT. 

On one of the first clays of December, 1833, a man 
whose snow-white hair and countenance appeared to 
show that grief had aged him more than years (for 
he seemed about sixty) was passing through the rue 
Gaillon after midnight. He paused before a poor¬ 
looking house of three stories to examine one of the 
windows which were placed at equal distances in the 
mansarde roof. A faint gleam came from its humble 
sash, in which some panes were replaced by paper. 
The paSser was looking at that flickering light with 
the idle curiosity of a Parisian lounger, when a young 
man came suddenly and rapidly from the house. As 
the pale rays of the street lamp fell upon the face of 
the older man, he seemed not wholly surprised when, 
in spite of the darkness, the young man came to him, 
with the precautions used in Paris when one fears to 
be mistaken in a recognition. 

“What! exclaimed the latter, “is it really you. 
Monsieur le comte, alone, on foot, at this hour, and 
so far from the rue Saint-Lazare? Allow me the 
honor of offering you my arm. The pavement to¬ 
night is so slippery that unless we support each 
other,’’ he added, to spare the pride of the old man, 
“we shall find it difficult to escape a fall.” 


A Double Life, 


429 


“But, my dear friend, I am only fifty-nine years of 
age — unhappily for me,” said the Comte de Granville. 
“So celebrated a physician as yourself ought to know 
that a man is in his full vigor at that time of life.” 

“Then you must be engaged in some love affair,” 
replied Horace Bianchon, laughing. “You are not, I 
am sure, accustomed to go on foot. When a man has 
such horses as yours — ” 

“But the greater part of the time,” said the Comte 
de Granville, “I do return from the Palais, or the 
Cercle des ^]trangers, on foot ” 

“And carrying, no doubt, on your person large sums 
of money. Is n’t that inviting a dagger. Monsieur le 
comte? ” 

“I am not afraid of such daggers,” replied the count 
with a careless though melancholy air. 

“But at any rate you ought not to stand still,” said 
the physician, drawing the magistrate on toward the 
boulevard. “A little more, and I shall think you 
want to rob me of your last illness, and to die by 
another hand than mine.” 

“Well, you surprised me engaged in a bit of spy¬ 
ing,” said the count, smiling. “Whether I pass 
through this street on foot or in a carriage, at any 
hour of the night I am certain to see at a third story 
window of the house you have just left the shadow of a 
person who appears to be working with heroic courage.” 

So saying, the count stopped short, as if some sud¬ 
den pang had seized him. 

“I take as much interest in that attic,” he con¬ 
tinued, “as a Parisian bourgeois feels in the comple¬ 
tion of the Palais-Royal — ” 


430 


A Double Life, 


“Well,” cried Horace, eagerly, interrupting the 
count, “I can tell you — ” 

“Tell me nothing,” said Granville, cutting short the 
doctor’s words. “1 wouldn’t give a penny to know 
if the shadow that flickers on that ragged curtain is 
that of a man or woman, or if the occupant of that 
garret is happy or unhappy. If I was surprised to¬ 
night not to see that person working, and if I stopped 
for a moment to gaze at the window, it was solely for 
the amusement of making con jectures as numerous and 
as silly as those the street idlers make about buildings 
in course of erection. For the last nine years, my 
young — ” 

He stopped, seemed to hesitate to use some expres¬ 
sion, and then, with a hasty gesture, added: — 

“No, I will not call you friend; I detest every sem¬ 
blance of sentiment. For the last nine years, as I 
was saying, I am no longer surprised that old people 
take pleasure in cultivating flowers and planting trees. 
The events of life have taught them not to trust in 
human affections. I grew an old man suddenly; I 
attach myself now to none but animals; I will call no 
man friend. I abhor the life of the world, in which I 
am alone. Nothing, nothing,” added the count, wdth an 
expression which made the young man shudder,—“noth¬ 
ing can move me now, and nothing can interest me.” 

“But you have children? ” 

“My children! ” he replied, in a tone of strange 
bitterness. “Yes, my eldest daughter is the Comtesse 
de Vandenesse. As for the other, her sister’s mar¬ 
riage has opened the way to hers. My two sons have 
met with great success; the vicomte is attorney-gen- 


A Double Life. 


431 


eral at Limoges, and the younger is king’s attorney. 
My children have their own interests, cares, and 
solicitudes. If a single one among them had tried to 
fill the void that is heref he said, striking his breast, 
“well, that one would have ruined his or her life by 
sacrificing it to me! And why have done so, after 
all, merely to brighten my few remaining years? 
Besides, could it have been done? Should I not have 
looked upon such generous care as the payment of a 
debt? But — ’’ 

Here the old man smiled with deepest irony. 

“But, doctor, the lessons we teach our children in 
arithmetic are never lost; they learn how to calcu¬ 
late— their inheritance. At this moment mine are 
reckoning on that.” 

“Oh! Monsieur le comte, how can such thoughts 
have come into your mind ?— you, so kind, so obliging, 
so humane? Am I not myself a living proof of the 
beneficence of which you take so broad and grand a 
view ? ” 

“For my own pleasure,” said the count, hastily. 
“I pay for a sensation as I shall pay to-morrow in 
piles of gold for the paltry excitement of play, which 
stirs my heart for an instant. I help my fellow-mor¬ 
tals for the same reason that I play at cards. There¬ 
fore I look for no gratitude from any one. Ah! young 
man, the events of life have flowed across my soul like 
the lava of Vesuvius through Herculaneum; the city 
exists, dead.” 

“Those who have brought a soul so warm and living 
as yours to such a point of insensibility are guilty of 
an awful wrong.” 


432 A Double Life. 

“Not another word!’* cried the count, with a look 
of horror. 

“You have a malady upon you which you ought to 
let me cure,” said Bianchon, in a voice of emotion. 

“Do you know a cure for death?” exclaimed the 
count, impatiently. 

“Yes, Monsieur le comte, I will engage to stir that 
heart you call so dead.” 

“Are you another Talma? ” 

“No; but Nature is as far superior to Talma as 
Talma may be to me. Hear me: that garret at which 
you gazed with interest is inhabited by a woman, 
some thirty years of age, in whom love has become 
fanaticism. The object of her worship is a young 
man of fine appearance, to whom some evil genius 
gave at birth all the vices of humanity. He is a 
gambler; whether he loves women or wine best no one 
could decide; he has committed, to my knowledge, 
crimes that should have brought him to the correc¬ 
tional police. Well, that unhappy woman sacrificed 
for him a happy life, a man who adored her, by 
whom she had two children — What is it. Monsieur 
le comte ? are you ill ? ” 

“No, nothing; go on! ” 

“She has let him squander her whole property; she 
would give him, I think, the world if she had it; 
night and day she works; often, without a murmur, 
she has seen that monster take the money she had 
earned to clothe her children — nay, their very food 
for the morrow! Three days ago she sold her hair, 
the finest I ever saw; that man came in before she 
hid the bit of gold; he claimed it; for a smile, a kiss, 


A Double Life, 


433 


she gave him the value of days of life and comfort! 
Is not such love both shocking and sublime? But toil 
and hunger have begun to waste her strength; the 
cries of her children torture her; she has fallen ill; 
to-night she is moaning on her pallet, unable, as you 
saw, to work. The children have had no food all day; 
they have ceased to cry, being too weak; they were 
silent when I got there. 

Bianchon stopped. The Comte de Granville, as if 
in spite of himself, had plunged his hand into his 
pocket. 

‘‘I foresee, my young friend, that she will live,” 
said the old man, “if you take care of her.” 

“Ah! poor creature,” cried the doctor, “who would 
not take care of one so wretched ? But I hope to do 
more; I hope to cure her of her love.” 

“But,” said the count, withdrawing his hand full of 
bank-notes from his pocket, “why should I pity a 
wretchedness whose joys would seem to me worth 
more than all my fortune? She feels, she lives, that 
woman! Louis XV. would have given his whole king¬ 
dom to rise from his coffin and have three days of 
youth and life. Is not that the history of millions 
of dead men, millions of sick men, millions of old 
men? ” 

“Poor Caroline! ” exclaimed the physician. 

Hearing that name the Comte de Granville quivered; 
he seized the arm of his companion, who fancied him¬ 
self gripped by iron pincers. 

“ Is she Caroline Crochard ? ” asked the old man, in 
a faltering voice. 

“Then you know her? ” replied the doctor. 

28 


434 


A Double Life, 


“And that wretch is named Solvet— Ah! you 
have kept your word; you have stirred my heart by 
the most terrible sensation I shall know till I am 
dust,” said the count. “Another of hell’s gifts!” he 
cried; “but I know how to pay them back.” 

At that moment the count and Bianchon had reached 
the corner of the rue de la Chaussee-d’Antin. One of 
those night-birds, a scavenger, with his basket on his 
back and a hook in his hand, was close beside the 
post where the count had now stopped short. The 
face of the old rag-picker was worthy of those which 
Charlet has immortalized in his sketches of the school 
of sweepers. 

“ Do you often pick up thousand-franc notes ? ” the 
count said to him. 

“Sometimes, my master.” 

“Do you return them? ” 

“That’s according to the reward offered.” 

“Here, my man,” cried the count, giving him a note 
for a thousand francs. “Take that; but remember 
that I give it to you on condition that you spend it at 
a tavern, get drunk upon it, quarrel, beat your wife, 
stab your friends. That will set the watch, and sur¬ 
geons and doctors, perhaps the gendarmes, the attor¬ 
neys, the judges and the jailers all to work. Don’t 
change that programme, or the devil will revenge it on 
you.” 

It needs an artist with the pencil of Charlet and 
Callot and the brushes of Teniers and Rembrandt to 
give a true idea of this nocturnal scene. 

“There’s my account settled, for the present, with 
hell, and T have had some pleasure out of my money,” 


A Double Life, 


435 


said the count in a deep voice, pointing out to the 
stupefied physician the indescribable face of the gap¬ 
ing rag-picker. “As for Caroline Crochard,” he con¬ 
tinued, “she may die in the tortures of hunger and 
thirst, listening to the cries of her starving children, 
recognizing the vileness of that man she loves. I will 
not give one penny to keep her from suffering; and I 
will never speak to you again, for the sole reason that 
you have succored her.” 

The count left Bianchon standing motionless as a 
statue, and disappeared, moving, with the rapidity of 
a young man in the direction of the rue Saint-Lazare. 
When he reached the little house which he occupied 
in that street, he saw, with some surprise, a carriage 
before the door. 

“Monsieur le procureur du roi,” said his valet when 
he entered, “has been here an hour, waiting to speak 
with monsieur. He is in monsieur’s bedroom.” 

Granville made a sign to the man, who retired. 

“What motive could be strong enough to make you 
break my express orders that none of my children 
should come to this house without being sent for ? ” 
he said to his son as he entered the room. 

“Father,” said the son, respectfully, in a voice that 
trembled, “I feel sure you will pardon me when you 
have heard my reason.” 

“Your answer is a proper one,” said his father, 
pointing to a chair. “Sit down; but whether I sit or 
walk about, pay no attention to my movements.” 

“Father,” said the procureur du roi, “a young lad 
has been arrested this evening at the house of a friend 


436 


A Double Life, 


of mine, where he committed a theft; the lad appeals 
to you and says he is your son.” 

‘‘His name? ” asked the count, trembling. 

“Charles Crochard.” 

“Enough,” said the father, with an imperative 
gesture. 

Granville walked up and down the room in a deep 
silence which his son was careful not to break. 

“My son,” he said at last, in a tone so gentle, 
so paternal that the young man quivered, “Charles 
Crochard has told the truth. I am glad that you have 
come to me, my good Eugene. Here is a sum of 
money,” he added, taking up a mass of bank-bills, 
“which you must use as you see fit in this affair. I 
trust in you, and I approve, in advance, all that you 
may do, whether at the present time, or in the future. 
Eugene, my dear son, kiss me; perhaps we now see 
each other for the last time. To-morrow I shall ask 
leave of absence of the king and start for Italy. 
Though a father is not bound to account to his chil¬ 
dren for his conduct, he ought to leave them as a 
legacy the experience which fate has allotted to him, 
—it is apart of their inheritance. When you marry,” 
continued the count, with an involuntary shudder, “ do 
not commit that act, the most important of all those 
imposed upon us by society, thoughtlessly. Study 
long the character of the woman with whom you asso¬ 
ciate yourself for life; also consult me; I should wish 
to judge her for myself. A want of union between 
husband and wife, however it may be caused, leads to 
frightful evils. We are, sooner or later, punished for 


A Double Life, 


437 


not obeying social laws— But as to that, I will 
write to you from Florence; a father, especially if 
he has the honor to be a judge in the highest courts 
of law, ought not to blush in presence of his son. 
Farewell.” 












THE RURAL BALL. 







THE RURAL BALL. 


To Henri de Balzac, 


I. 


His Brother, 

Honors. 


A REBELLIOUS YOUNG GIRL. 

The Comte de Fontaine, head of one of the most 
ancient families in Poitou, had served the cause of 
the Bourbons with courage and intelligence during the 
war which the Vendeans made against the Republic. 
After escaping the dangers that threatened the royalist 
leaders during that stormy period of contemporaneous 
history, he said, gayly: “I am one of those who are 
fated to be killed on the steps of the throne.” This 
little jest was not without truth, as to a man left for 
dead on the bloody day of the Quatre-Chemins. 

Though ruined by confiscations, the faithful Vendean 
refused the lucrative places which were offered to 
him by the Emperor Napoleon. Uncompromising in 
his religion of aristocracy he had blindly followed its 
axioms when he thought proper to take a wife. In 
spite of the offers of a rich revolutionary parvenu, 
who was willing to pay a high price for such an alii- 



442 


The Rural Ball, 


ance, he married a Demoiselle de Kergarouet, a girl 
without fortune, but whose family is one of the oldest 
in Brittany. At the time of the Restoration, Monsieur 
de Fontaine was burdened with a numerous family. 
Though he did not share the ideas of the greedy nobles 
who begged for favors, he yielded to his wife’s request, 
left his country domain, the modest revenues of which 
barely sufficed for the needs of his children, and came 
to Paris. Shocked by the avidity shown by many of 
his old comrades for the places and dignities of the 
new regime, he vms about to return to Poitou, when 
he received an official letter in which a well-known 
minister informed him of his appointment to the rank 
of brigadier-general, in virtue of the ordinance which 
allowed the officers of the Catholic armies to count the 
twenty jmars of Louis XVIII.’s exiled reign as years 
of service. Some days later the count received, with¬ 
out solicitation, the cross of the Legion of honor and 
that of the order of Saint-Louis. 

Shaken in his resolution by these successive favors, 
which he thought he owed to the monarch’s memory, 
he no longer contented himself with taking his family, 
as he had done religiously every Sunday morning, to 
the Salle des Marechaux to shout “Vive le roi! ” when 
the princes passed on their way to Mass; he asked 
the favor of a private audience. This audience, in¬ 
stantly granted, had, however, nothing private about 
it. The royal salon was full of old royalists, whose 
powdered heads seen at a certain level looked like a 
carpet of snow. There, the count met with a number 
of his old companions in arms, who received him 
rather stiffly; but the princes were adorable^ a term of 


The Rural Ball, 


443 


enthusiasm which escaped him when the most gracious 
of his masters, whom the count supposed to know 
barely his name, came up and pressed his hand, and 
called him the purest and most disinterested of the 
Vendeans. 

But in spite of this ovation, none of these august 
personages thought of asking him the amount of his 
losses in their cause, nor that of the money he had 
generously poured out for the maintenance of the 
Catholic army. He found, too late, that he had made 
war at his own expense. Toward the end of the even¬ 
ing he thought he might risk a witty allusion to the 
state of his affairs. His Majesty laughed heartily; 
any speech that bore the stamp of wit was sure of 
pleasing him; but for all that, he replied with one of 
those royal jests whose soft speciousness is more to 
be feared than a reprimand. One of the king’s confi¬ 
dential intimates soon after approached the Vendean 
and let him know, in a guarded and civil manner, that 
the time had not yet come to make claims upon 
the masters, for there were others on the tapis whose 
services were of longer date than his. The count on 
this retired from the group which formed a semi-circle 
in front of the august royal family. Then, after dis¬ 
engaging his sword, not without difficulty, from the 
midst of the weak old legs which surrounded him, 
he made his way on foot across the court-yard of the 
Tuileries, to a hackney-coach which he had left upon 
the quay. With that restive spirit which characterizes 
the nobility of the vieille roche^ in whom the memory 
of the League and the Barricades is not yet extinct, 
he grumbled aloud, as he drove along, on the change 
that was visible at court. 


444 


The Rural Ball. 


“Formerly,” he said, “every man could speak freely 
to the king of his affairs; the seigneurs could ask at 
their ease for money and offices; but now it appears 
we cannot even ask without scandal for the sums "we 
have advanced in his service. Morhleu! the cross of 
Saint-Louis and the rank of general are no equivalent 
for the three hundred thousand francs that from first 
to last I have spent on the royal cause. I will speak 
face to face with the king in his private cabinet.” 

This scene chilled the zeal of Monsieur de Fontaine, 
all the more because his requests for an audience 
were left without reply. He saw the intruders of the 
Empire successful in obtaining various offices reserved 
under the old monarchy for the best families. 

“All is lost,” he said, one morning. “The king has 
never been anything but revolutionary. If it were not 
for Monsieur, who never derogates from the true 
regime, and consoles his faithful followers, I don’t 
know what would become of the crown of France. 
Their cursed constitutional system is the worst of all 
governments, and will never suit France. Louis 
XVIII. and Monsieur Beugnot ruined everything for 
us at Saint-Ouen.” 

The count, in despair, was again preparing to return 
to his country home, abandoning all his claims to in¬ 
demnity; but, at that moment, the events of the 20th 
of March produced a new tempest, which threatened to 
engulf the legitimate king and his defenders. Like 
those generous souls who will not send out their ser¬ 
vants in the rain. Monsieur de Fontaine borrow^ed 
money on his estate to follow the retreating monarchy, 
without knowing whether his emigration would stand 


The Rural BalL 


445 


him in better stead than his former devotion. But, 
having observed that the companions of the king’s 
former exile stood higher in his favor than those who 
stayed behind and protested arms in hand against the 
Republic, he may have considered that this journey 
into foreign lands would be more to his benefit than 
a perilous and active service in France. He was, 
therefore, to use the saying of our wittiest and ablest 
diplomatist, one of the five hundred faithful servants 
who shared the exile of the court to Ghent, and one of 
the fifty thousand who returned from it. 

During this short absence of royalty. Monsieur de 
Fontaine had the luck of being employed by Louis 
XVIII., and of finding more than one occasion to give 
him proofs of great political sense and sincere attach¬ 
ment to his person. One evening, when the king had 
nothing better to do, he remembered the witty remark 
the count had made to him at the Tuileries. The old 
Vendean did not let the opportunity slip; he related 
his history so cleverly that the king, who forgot noth¬ 
ing, was likely to remember it in due season. The 
royal literary man soon after noticed the graceful turn 
of phrase given to certain notes he had confided to 
the count to write for him; and this little merit, 
together with his wit, placed Monsieur de Fontaine in 
the king’s memory as one of the most loyal servants 
of the crown. At the second Restoration the count 
was appointed one of the envoys extraordinary to go 
through the departments and pass judgment on the 
guilty actors of the rebellion; he used his terrible power 
moderately. As soon as this temporary jurisdiction 
was over he entered the Council of State, became a 


446 


The Rxiral Ball, 


deputy, spoke little, listened much, and changed con¬ 
siderably in his opinions. Certain circumstances, un¬ 
known to biographers, brought him into such intimate 
relations with the king that the witty monarch one 
day said to him: — 

“Friend Fontaine, I shall never dream of appointing 
you to any post. Neither you nor I, if we were em- 
floyes^ could keep our places, on account of our opin¬ 
ions. Kepresentative government has one good thing 
about it; it saves us the trouble we formerly had in 
getting rid of our secretaries of State. The Council 
is now a sort of wayside inn, where public opinion 
sends us queer travellers; however, we can always find 
some place to put a faithful servant.’’ 

This somewhat satirical opening was followed by a 
special ordinance giving Monsieur de Fontaine the 
administration of a part of the Crown domain. In 
consequence of the intelligent attention with which he 
listened to the sarcasms of his royal friend, his name 
was often on his Majesty’s lips whenever there was a 
commission to be created which offered a lucrative 
appointment. The count had the good sense to say 
nothing about the favors the king showed him; and 
he had the art of entertaining his royal master by a 
piquant manner of telling a story during those famil¬ 
iar conversations in which Louis XVIII. took as much 
delight as he did in political anecdotes, diplomatic 
cancans (if we may use that word in such connec¬ 
tion), or the reading and writing of elegant little 
notes. It is well known that the details of his “gov- 
ernmentability,” as the august jester called it, amused 
him infinitely. 


The Rural Ball. 


447 


Thanks to the good sense, wit, and cleverness of the 
Comte de Fontaine, every member of his numerous 
family, young as they were, ended, as he said in jest 
to his master, by fastening like silk-worms on the 
leaves of the budget. His eldest son obtained an 
eminent place in the permanent magistracy. The 
second, a mere captain before the Eestoration, received 
a legion on the return from Ghent, entered the Royal 
Guard, thence into the body-guard, and became a lieu¬ 
tenant-general after the affair of the Trocadero. The 
youngest son, appointed first a sub-prefect, was soon 
after Master of Petitions and a director of one of the 
municipal departments of the city of Paris. These 
favors, given quietly, and kept as secret as the count’s 
own favor with the king, were showered upon him 
unperceived by the public. Though the father and 
his three sons had each sinecures enough to give them 
a budgetary revenue that was nearly equal to that of 
a director-general, their political good luck excited 
no envy. In those days when the constitutional system 
was just established, few persons had any correct ideas 
as to the quiet regions of the budget, or the number 
of favorites who contrived to find there the equivalent 
of destroyed monasteries. 

Monsieur le Comte de Fontaine, who had formerly 
boasted of never having read the Charter and had 
shown such displeasure at the eager avidity of cour¬ 
tiers, was not long in proving to his august master 
that he understood perfectly well the proper spirit 
and resources of a representative. Nevertheless, in 
spite of the careers opened to his three sons. Monsieur 
de Fontaine’s numerous family was too numerous to 


448 


The Rural Ball, 


allow him to become a rich man all at once. In addi¬ 
tion to his three sons he had three daughters, and he 
feared to wear out the bounty of the king. On 
reflection, he thought it better not to mention to his 
august master more than one at a time of these virgins, 
all waiting to light their lamps. The king had too 
much sense of the becoming to leave his work unfin¬ 
ished.' The marriage of the first daughter with a 
receiver-general, Planat de Baudry, was arranged by 
one of those short royal sentences which cost nothing 
and bestow millions. One evening, when the king was 
sulky, he laughed on learning the existence of a second 
Demoiselle de Fontaine; nevertheless, he married her 
to a young magistrate,— of bourgeois descent, it is true, 
but rich, and full of talent, and he made him a baron. 
But when, the following year, the Vendean let drop a 
few words about a Mademoiselle ^Imilie de Fontaine, 
the king replied, in his sour little voice: — 

Amicus Plato^ sed magis arnica natioP 

Then, a few days later, he presented his “friend 
Fontaine ” with a rather silly quatrain, which he called 
an epigram, in which he teased him about three 
daughters produced so opportunely in the form of a 
trinity. If the chronicle be true, the monarch had 
made the unity of the three persons the point of his 
wit. 

“Would the king deign to change his epigram into 
an epithalamium,” suggested the count, endeavoring 
to turn this freak to his profit. 

“I don’t see the rhyme nor the reason of that re¬ 
mark,” said the king, harshly, not at all pleased at any 
joke about his poetry, however gentle it might be. 


The Rural Ball, 


449 


From that day his relations with Monsieur de Fon¬ 
taine were less cordial. Kings like contradiction 
more than we imagine. 

lllmilie de Fontaine, like many youngest children, 
was the Benjamin of the family, and spoiled by every¬ 
one. The king’s coldness was all the more distressing 
to the count because the marriage of this petted dar¬ 
ling proved to be an exceedingly difficult one to carry 
through. To understand the obstacles in the way of 
it, we must enter the fine hotel where the government 
official lodged with his family at the cost of the Civil 
List. 

Emilie had spent her childhood on the Fontaine 
estate, enjoying that abundance which suffices to the 
pleasures of early youth. Her slightest wishes were 
laws to her sisters, brothers, mother, and even to her 
father. All her relations idolized her. As she reached 
girlhood at the very moment when her family were at 
the summit of fortune’s favors, the enchantment of her 
life continued. The luxury of Paris seemed to her as 
natural as the wealth of flowers and fruit, and the rural 
opulence which had made the happiness of her earliest 
years. She had never been opposed in her childhood 
in satisfying her joyous fancies, and now, at the age 
of fifteen, when she was flung into the vortex of the 
great world, she found herself still obeyed. 

Accustomed, by degrees, to the enjoyments of 
wealth, the elegancies of dress, gorgeous salons, and 
equipages became as necessary to her as the flattery, 
true or false, of compliments, and the fetes and vani¬ 
ties of the court. Like many spoiled children, she 
tyrannized over those who loved her, and reserved her 
29 


450 


The Rural Ball, 


coquetries for the persons who took least notice of her. 
Her defects grew with her growth, and her parents 
were soon to gather the bitter fruits of this fatal 
education. 

At nineteen years of age, lllmilie de Fontaine had 
not yet been willing to select, as her husband, any of 
the numerous young men whom her father’s policy 
assembled at his fetes. Although so young, she 
enjoyed as much freedom in society as though she 
were a woman. Her beauty was so remarkable that 
no sooner did she enter a room than she seemed to 
reign there; but, like kings, she had no friends, and 
no lovers; a better nature than hers, feeling itself 
the object of so much admiration, would not have 
repelled it as she did. No man, not even an old 
man,,had nerve enough to contradict the opinions of a 
girl the mere glance of whose eyes roused love in a 
cold heart. 

Brought up with a care that her sisters had lacked, 
she had various accomplishments; she painted fairly 
well, she spoke English and Italian, played on the 
piano remarkably well, and her voice, trained by the 
best masters, had a timbre which gave to her singing 
an irresistible charm. Witty by nature, and well-read 
in literature, she might have been thought, as Masca- 
rille says of people of quality, to have been born into 
the world. knowing everything. She argued fluently 
about Italian or Flemish art, on the middle ages or 
the renaissance, and gave her opinion right and left 
on books ancient or modern, bringing out, sometimes 
with cruel cleverness, the defects of some work. The 
simplest of her remarks were received by an idolizing 


The Rural Ball. 


451 


crowd on their knees. She dazzled superficial persons; 
but as for wiser ones, her natural tact enabled her to 
recognize them, and to them she was so winning, so 
coquettish, that she escaped examination under cover 
of her flatteries. This attractive varnish covered an 
indifferent heart, an opinion, common to many young 
girls, that no one inhabited a sphere lofty enough to 
comprehend the excellence of her soul, and a personal 
pride based more on her birth than on her beauty. In 
the absence of the more ardent sentiments which, 
sooner or later, ravage the heart of woman, Emilie 
spent her youthful ardor in an immoderate worship of 
distinction, expressing the utmost contempt for every¬ 
thing plebeian. Very haughty toward the new nobility, 
she did her best to make her parents keep strictly to 
the social lines of the faubourg Saint-Germain. 

This disposition in his daughter had not escaped the 
observing eye of Monsieur de Fontaine, who had more 
than once been made to wince under her sarcasms and 
witty sayings at the time of the marriage of her elder 
sisters. Logical minds might, in fact, be surprised 
to see the old Vendean giving his eldest daughter to 
a receiver-general who had acquired possession of old 
seignorial property by confiscation; and the second 
to a magistrate too lately baronified to enable the 
world to forget that his father sold fagots. This 
notable change in the ideas of the count in his sixtieth 
year, a period when few men give up their fixed be¬ 
liefs, was not due solely to a residence in the modern 
Babylon, where most provincials end by rubbing off 
their peculiarities; the new political conscience of the 
Comte de Fontaine was due far more to the counsels 


452 


The Rural Ball. 


and friendship of the king. That philosophical 
prince took pleasure in converting the Vendean to the 
ideas which the march of the nineteenth century and 
the renovation of the monarchy demanded. Louis 
XVIII. desired to fuse parties as Napoleon had fused 
men and things; but the legitimate king, as wise, 
perhaps, as his rival, went to work in an opposite 
direction. The last head of the House of Bourbon 
was anxious to satisfy the tiers etat and the followers 
of the Empire as the first of the Napoleons was eager 
to draw to himself the great lords and to endow the 
Church. Being the confidant of the king’s thoughts, 
the councillor of State became insensibly one of the 
most influential and wisest leaders of the moderate 
party, who strongly desired, in the national interests, 
a fusion of opinions. He preached the costly princi¬ 
ples of constitutional government, and seconded, with 
all his strength, the game of political see-saw which 
enabled his master to govern France in the midst of 
so many agitations. Perhaps Monsieur de Fontaine 
flattered himself that he should reach a peerage by one 
of those legislative gusts, the effects of which take the 
oldest politicians by surprise. One of the flrmest of 
his acquired principles consisted in no longer recog¬ 
nizing any other nobility in France than that of the 
peerage, because the families of peers alone held the 
privileges. 

“A nobility without privileges,” he said, “is a 
handle without a tool.” 

Thus, equally far from the party of Lafayette as 
from that of La Bourdonnaye, he favored, ardently, 
the general reconciliation from which was to issue an 


The Rural Ball, 


453 


era of new and brilliant destinies for France. He 
tried to convince the families who frequented his 
salons, and those whom he visited, of the few favorable 
chances now to be found in a military or governmental 
career. He advised mothers to put their sons into 
industrial and other professions, assuring them that 
military employment and the higher functions of 
government must end in belonging constitutionally 
to the younger sons of peers. 

The new ideas of the Comte de Fontaine, and the 
marriages which resulted of his two elder daughters, 
had found much opposition in the bosom of his family. 
The Comtesse de Fontaine continued faithful to the old 
beliefs, as became a descendant of the Rohans through 
her mother. Though she opposed, for a time, the 
marriage of her daughters, she yielded, after a while, 
as all mothers would have done in her place; but she 
insisted that her daughter Emilie should be married 
in a manner to satisfy the pride which she had herself 
developed in that young breast. 

Thus the events which might have brought only joy 
to this household produced a slight leaven of discord. 
One of the sons married Mademoiselle Mongenod, the 
daughter of a rich banker; another chose a girl whose 
father, thrice a millionnaire, had made his money by 
salt; the third had taken to wife a Mademoiselle 
Grossetete, daughter of the receiver-general at Boui’ges. 
The three sisters-in-law and the two brothers-in-law 
finding it for their interests to enter the salons of the 
faubourg Saint-Germain, agreed among themselves 
to make a little court around Emilie. This compact 
of self-interests and pride was not, however, so thor- 


454 


The Rural Ball. 


oughly cemented that the young sovereign did not 
occasionally excite revolutions in her kingdom. 
Scenes which good taste would have repudiated took 
place in private between the members of this powerful 
family, though they were never allowed to affect the 
outward show of affection assumed before the public- 
Such were the general circumstances of the Fontaine 
household and its little domestic strife, when the king, 
into whose favor the count was expecting to return, 
was seized with his last illness. The great politician 
who had succeeded so well in piloting his wreck amid 
the storm was not long in succumbing. Uncertain as 
to the future, the Comte de Fontaine now made the 
greatest efforts to collect about his youngest daughter 
the elite of the marriageable young men. Those who 
have tried to solve the difficult problem of marrying a 
proud and fanciful daughter will understand the wor¬ 
ries that came upon the poor Vendean. If this event 
could worthily be brought about in a manner to please 
his precious child, the count’s career in Paris for the 
last ten years w^ould receive its final crown. His 
family, indeed, by the way it had invaded all depart¬ 
ments of government, might be compared to the house 
of Austria, which threatens to overrun all Europe 
through its alliances. The old count therefore per¬ 
severed against his daughter’s objections, so much 
did he have her happiness at heart; though nothing 
could be more provoking than the way in which that 
impertinent girl pronounced her decisions and judged 
the merits of her adorers. It really seemed as if 
Emilie was one of those princesses in the Arabian 
Nights to whom all the princes of the earth were 


The Rural Ball. 


455 


offered; and her objections were equally grotesque and 
senseless; this one was knock-kneed, that one 
squinted, a third was named Durand, a fourth limped, 
and all were too fat. Livelier, more charming, and 
gayer than ever when she had just rejected two or 
three suitors, Emilie de Fontaine rushed into all the 
winter fetes, going from ball to ball, examining with 
her penetrating eyes the celebrities of the day, and 
exciting proposals which she always rejected. 

Nature had given her, profusely, the advantages 
required for the role of Celimene. Tall and slender, 
she was able to assume a bearing that was imposing 
or volatile, as she pleased. Her neck, a trifle too long, 
enabled her to take charming attitudes of disdain or 
sauciness. She had made herself a fruitful repertory 
of those turns of the head and feminine gestures which 
explained, cruelly or the reverse as the case might 
be, her smiles and words. Beautiful black hair, 
thick and well-arched eyebrows gave an expression of 
pride to her face which coquetry and her mirror had 
taught her to render terrible or to modify by the fixity 
or the softness of her glance, by the slight inflexion or 
the immobility of her lips, by the coldness or the 
grace of her smile. When Emilie wanted to lay hold 
of a heart she could make her voice melodious; but 
when she intended to paralyze the tongue of an indis¬ 
creet worshipper she could give it a curt clearness 
which silenced him. Her pure white face and alabas¬ 
ter forehead were like the limpid surface of a lake 
which is ruflfled by the slight breeze, and returns to 
its joyous serenity as the air grows still. More than 
one young man, the victim of her disdain, had accused 


456 


The Rural Ball. 


her of playing comedy. In revenge for such speeches 
she inspired her detractors with the desire to please 
her, and then subjected them pitilessly to all the arts 
of her coquetry. Among the young girls of fashion¬ 
able society none knew better than she how to assume 
a haughty air to men of talent, or display that insult¬ 
ing politeness which makes inferiors of our equals. 
Wherever she went she seemed to receive homage 
rather than courtesies, and even in the salon of a prin¬ 
cess she had the air of being seated on a throne. 

Monsieur de Fontaine perceived, too late, how much 
the education of his favorite daughter had been per¬ 
verted by the mistaken tenderness of her family. The 
admiration which the world gives to a beautiful young 
woman, for which it often avenges itself later, had 
still further exalted lllmilie’s pride and increased her 
self-confidence. General approval had developed in 
her the selfishness natural to spoiled children, who, like 
kings, amuse themselves on all who approach them. 
At this moment the graces of youth and the charm of 
native talent hid these defects from ordinary eyes; 
but nothing escapes the eye of a good father, and 
Monsieur de Fontaine sometimes attempted to explain 
to his daughter the true meaning of the enigmatical 
pages of the book of life. A vain attempt! He was 
made too often to groan over the capricious intracta¬ 
bility and sarcastic cleverness of his wayward girl to 
persevere steadily in the difficult task of correcting her 
warped nature. He contented himself, finally, with 
giving her kindly and gentle counsel from time to 
time; but he had the pain of finding that his tender- 
est words slid from her heart like water from polished 


The Rural Ball, 


457 


marble. It took the old Vend^an some years to per¬ 
ceive the condescending manner with which his petted 
child received his caresses. 

Blit there were times when with sudden caprice, 
apparently inexplicable in a young girl, she would shut 
herself up and go nowhere; at such times she com¬ 
plained that social life separated her from the heart of 
her father and mother, she grew jealous of every one, 
even her brothers and sisters. Then, having taken 
pains to create a desert around her, the strange girl 
threw the blame of her dissatisfied solitude and self- 
made troubles upon life. Armed with her twenty 
years’ experience, she railed at fate; not perceiving 
that the principle of happiness is within us, she cried 
aloud to the things of life to give it to her. She would 
have gone to the ends of the earth to avoid a marriage 
like those of her sisters, and yet in her heart she was 
horribly jealous on seeing them rich and happy. 

Sometimes her mother— even more the victim of her 
proceedings than her father — was led to think there 
was a tinge of madness in her. But her behavior was 
otherwise explicable. Nothing is more common than 
self-asumption in the heart of young girls placed high 
on the social ladder and gifted with great beauty. 
They are often persuaded that their mother, now forty 
to fifty years old, can no longer sympathize with their 
young souls or conceive their wants. They imagine 
that most mothers, jealous of their daughters, have a 
premeditated design to prevent them from receiving 
attentions or eclipsing their own claims. Hence, 
secret tears and muttered rebellion against imaginary 
maternal tyranny. From the midst of these fancied 


458 


The Rural Ball. 


griefs, which they make real, they draw for themselves 
a brilliant horoscope; their magic consists in taking 
dreams for realities; they resolve, in their secret medi¬ 
tations, to give their heart and hand to no man who 
does not possess such or such qualifications, and they 
picture to their imagination a type to w'hich their 
accepted lover must, willingly or not, conform. After 
certain experience of life and the serious reflections 
which years bring to them, and after seeing the world 
and its prosaic course, the glowing colors of their ideal 
visions fade; and they are quite astonished some fine 
day to wake up and find themselves happy without the 
nuptial poesy of their dreams. At present Mademoi¬ 
selle Emilie de Fontaine had resolved, in her flimsy 
wisdom, on a programme to w'hich a suitor must con¬ 
form in order to be accepted. Hence her disdainful 
comments. 

“Though young, and belonging to the old nobility,” 
she said to herself, “he must also be a peer of France, 
or the son of a peer. I could never bear to see our 
arms on the panels of my carriage without the azure 
mantle, or be unable to drive among the princes 
at Longchamps. Papa himself says the peerage is 
going to be the highest dignity in France. He must 
also be a soldier, but resign, if I wish him to; and I 
want him decorated, so that sentries may salute us.” 

But the above qualifications would amount to very 
little, she thought, if this being did not also possess 
great amiability, an elegant manner, intellect, and a 
slender form. Slenderness, grace of body, fugitive 
though it might be, especially under a representative 
government, was absolutely indispensable. Made- 


The Rural Ball, 


459 


moiselle de Fontaine had a certain vision in her mind’s 
eye which served her as model. The young man who 
at her first glance did not meet the required conditions 
never obtained a second. 

“Oh, heavens! how fat he is!” was with her the 
expression of an abiding contempt. 

To hear her, one would think that persons of honest 
corpulence were incapable of feelings, dangerous hus¬ 
bands, beings unworthy of existing in civilized soci¬ 
ety. Though considered a beauty at the East, plump¬ 
ness was to her eyes a misfortune in women and a 
crime in men. These fantastic opinions amused her 
hearers, thanks to a certain liveliness of elocution. 
Nevertheless, the count felt that his daughter’s preten¬ 
sions would, sooner or later, become a subject of ridi¬ 
cule, especially to clear-sighted women of little charity. 
He also feared that as she grew older her fantastic 
ideas might change to ill-breeding; and he saw plainly 
that more than one actor in her comedy, displeased at 
her refusal, was only waiting for some unlucky inci¬ 
dent to avenge himself. Consequently, during the 
first winter after the accession of Charles X., he 
redoubled his efforts, seconded by his sons and his 
sons-in-law, to fill his salons with the best marriage¬ 
able men in Paris, trusting that at last this assemblage 
of suitors would put an end to his daughter’s fancies, 
and force her to decide. He felt an inward satisfac¬ 
tion in having done his duty as a father; but no result 
appearing, he resolved to'have a firm explanation 
with her, and toward the end of Lent she was sum¬ 
moned to his study. 

She came in singing an air from the “Barbiere.” 


460 


The Rural Ball. 


“Good-morning, papa. What do you want me for 
so early ? 

The words were chanted as if they were the last 
line of the air she was singing; then she kissed the 
count, not with that familiar tenderness which makes 
the filial sentiment so sweet a thing, but carelessly, 
like a mistress, sure of pleasing, whatever she may do. 

“My dear child,” said Monsieur de Fontaine, 
gravely, “I have sent for you to talk very seriously 
about your future. It has now become a necessity for 
you to choose a husband who will make your happiness 
lasting — ” 

“My dear papa,” replied ^]milie, in her most caress¬ 
ing tones, “the armistice that you and I agreed upon 
as to my lovers has not yet expired.” 

“^Imilie, you must cease to jest on a subject so 
important. For some time past all the efforts of those 
who love you truly, my child, have been directed to 
finding you a suitable establishment, and you would 
be guilty of the greatest ingratitude if you made light 
of the interest which I am not the only one to spend 
upon you.” 

Hearing these words, the young girl selected an 
arm-chair and carried it to the other side of the fire¬ 
place, directly opposite to her father, sat down in it 
with too solemn an air not to be sarcastic, and crossed 
her arms over a pelerine of innumerable snowy ruches. 
Glancing covertly at her father’s anxious face, she 
said, saucily: — 

“I never heard you say, papa, that the heads of 
departments made their communications in their 
dressing-gowns. But, no matter,” she added, smil- 


The Rural Ball. 


461 


ing, “the populace are not punctilious. Now, then, 
bring in your bill, and make your official representa¬ 
tions.” 

“I shall not always be able to make them, my silly 
child. Now listen to me, Emilie. I do not intend 
much longer to compromise my character for dignity, 
which is the inheritance of my children, by recruiting 
this regiment of suitors whom you send to the right¬ 
about every spring. Already you have been the cause 
of dangerous dissensions with certain families. I 
hope that you will now understand more plainly the 
difficulties of your position and mine. You are 
twenty-two years old, my dear, and you ought to have 
been married at least three years ago. Your brothers 
and sisters are well and happily established. I must 
tell you now that the expenses accruing from those 
marriages, and the style in which your mother keeps 
up this household, have absorbed so much of our 
property that I cannot afford to give you a dowry of 
more than a hundred thousand francs. It is my duty 
to make ample provision for your mother, whose future 
must not be sacrificed to that of her children; I 
should ill reward her devotion to me in the days of 
my poverty if I did not leave her enough to continue 
the comfort she now enjoys. I wish you to see, my 
child, that your dowry will not be in keeping with the 
ideas of grandeur you now indulge— Now, don’t be 
sulky, my dear, but let us talk reasonably. Among 
the various young men who are looking for wives, have 
you noticed Monsieur Paul de Manerville?” 

“Oh! he lisps; and he is always looking at his foot 
because he thinks it small. Besides, he is blonde, and 
I don’t like fair men.” 


462 


The Rural Ball. 


“Well, Monsieur de Beaudenord? ” 

“He is not noble. He is awkward and fat; more¬ 
over, he is so dark. It is a pity that pair could n’t 
exchange points; the first could give his figure and 
his name to the second, who might return the gift in 
hair, and then — perhaps — ” 

“What have you to say against Monsieur de Ras- 
tignac ? 

“Madame de Nucingen has made a banker of him,” 
she said, maliciously. 

“And our relation, the Vicomte de Portenduere? ” 

“That boy! who doesn’t knowhow to dance; be¬ 
sides, he has no fortune. Moreover, papa, none of 
those men have titles. I wish to be at least a coun¬ 
tess, like my mother.” 

“Have you seen no one this winter who — ” 

“No one, papa.” 

“Then what do you want?” 

“The son of a peer of France.” 

“You are crazy, my child! ” said Monsieur de Fon¬ 
taine, rising. 

Suddenly he looked up as if to ask of heaven another 
dose of resignation; then, with a look of fatherly pity 
on the girl, who was somewhat touched, he took her 
hand, pressed it between his own, and said, ten¬ 
derly : — 

“God is my witness, poor, misguided girl! that I 
have conscientiously done my duty by you— Con¬ 
scientiously, do I say? I mean lovingly, my ^milie. 
Yes, God knows that I have offered you, this winter, 
more than one honorable man w'hose character and 
morals were known to me as being worthy of my 


The Rural Ball. 


463 


child. My task is done. ^Imilie, from this day 
forth I leave you mistress of your own fate; and I feel 
both fortunate and unfortunate in finding myself 
relieved of the heaviest of all the paternal obligations. 
I do not know how long you may hear a voice which 
has, alas! never been stern to you; but it will never 
again say more to you than this: Remember that con¬ 
jugal happiness does not depend as much on brilliant 
qualities or on wealth, as on reciprocal esteem and 
affection. Married happiness is, of its nature, 
modest and not dazzling. My daughter, I will accept 
whoever you may present to me as my son-in-law, but 
if you make an unhappy marriage, remember that you 
have no right to blame your father. I will not refuse 
to promote your wishes and help you; but your choice 
must be serious and definite. I will not compromise 
the respect due to my character any longer by promot¬ 
ing your present course.” 

Her father’s affection and his solemn accents did 
really affect Mademoiselle de Fontaine sincerely; but 
she concealed her feelings, and sprang gayly on his 
knee, — for the count was again seated, and trembling 
with agitation. She caressed and coaxed him so 
prettily that the old man’s brow began to clear, and 
when she thought him sufficiently recovered from his 
painful emotion she said, in a low voice: — 

“I thank you for your great kindness, dear papa. 
Is it so very difficult to marry a peer of France? I 
have heard you say they were made in batches. Ah! 
you surely won’t refuse me your advice? ” 

“No, my poor child, no; indeed, I will often say to 
you, ‘ Beware! ’ Remember that the peerage is too 


464 


The Rural Ball. 


new a thing in our ‘ governmentability,’ as the late 
king used to say, for peers to possess large fortunes. 
Those who are rich want to become richer, and they 
are looking for heiresses for their sons wherever they 
can find them. It will be two hundred years before 
the necessity they are under to make rich marriages 
dies out. I don’t need, I think, to warn a girl like 
you of the difficulties in your way. One thing I am 
sure of; you will never be misled by a handsome face 
or flattering manners to rashly attribute either sense 
or virtue to a stranger; you have your heart, like a 
good horseman, too well in hand for that. My 
daughter, I can only wish you good luck.” 

“You are laughing at me, papa. Well, listen. I 
declare to you that I will go and die in Mademoiselle 
de Conde’s convent sooner than not be the wife of a 
peer of France. ” 

She sprang from her father’s arms and ran off, proud 
of being her own mistress, and singing, as she went, 
the Cara non duhitare in the “Matrimonio Segreto.” 

At dessert that day, Madame Planat, ^Imilie’s 
elder sister, began to speak of a young American, the 
possessor of a great fortune, who was passionately in 
love with the girl, and had lately made her very bril¬ 
liant proposals. 

“He is a banker, I think,” said fimilie, carelessly. 
“I don’t like financial people.” 

“But, Emilie,” said the Baron de Vilaine, the hus¬ 
band of her second sister, “you don’t like the magis¬ 
tracy any better; so that really if you reject all men 
of property without titles, I don’t see into what class 
you can go for a husband.” 


The Bural Ball. 465 

“Especially, £milie, with your sentiments on fat 
men,’’ added her brother, the lieutenant-general. 

“I know very well what I want,” replied the girl. 

“My sister wants a noble name, a fine young man, 
a glorious future, and a hundred thousand francs 
a year, —Monsieur de Marsay, for instance,” said the 
Baronne de Fontaine. 

“I know this, my dear sister,” returned ^Imilie. 
“I shall not make a foolish marriage, as I have seen 
so many people do. Now, to avoid, in future, these 
nuptial discussions, I here declare that I shall regard 
as a personal enemy any one who says another word 
to me about marriage.” 

A great-uncle of Elmilie, a vice-admiral whose for¬ 
tune had just been increased by twenty thousand francs 
a year through the law of indemnity, an old man of 
seventy, assumed the right of saying harsh truths 
when he pleased to his grand-niece, whom he idolized. 
He now remarked, as if to put a stop to the sharpness 
of the conversation: — 

“Don’t tease my poor ^milie; can’t you see that she 
is waiting for the majority of the Due de Bordeaux? ” 

A general laugh replied to the old man’s jest. 

“Take care I don’t marry you, you old goose,” re¬ 
torted the girl, whose last word was fortunately lost 
in the hubbub. 

“My children,” said Madame de Fontaine, endeav¬ 
oring to soften this impertinence, “^Imilie, like the 
rest of you, will take her mother’s advice. ” 

“Oh, heavens! no; I shall take no one’s advice but 
my own in a matter which concerns me alone,” said 
Mademoiselle de Fontaine, very distinctly. 

30 


466 


The Bural Ball, 


All eyes turned to the head of the family on hearing 
this speech. Every one seemed curious to see how 
the count would take such an attack on his dignity. 
Not only did the worthy Vendean enjoy the considera¬ 
tion of the world at large, hut, more fortunate than 
many fathers, he was greatly esteemed by his own 
family, all the members of which recognized the solid 
qualities which had enabled him to make the fortune 
of those belonging to him. He w^as therefore sur¬ 
rounded by that respect and even reverence which 
English families and some aristocratic families on the 
continent show to the head of their genealogical tree. 
Silence fell; the eyes of every one turned from the 
haughty and sullen face of the spoiled child to the 
stern faces of her father and mother. 

“I have left Emilie mistress of her own fate,” was 
the reply of the count, made in a deep voice. 

All present looked at Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
with a curiosity that was mingled with pity. The 
words seemed to say that paternal kindness was weary 
of endeavoring to control a character which the family 
knew to be uncontrollable. The sons-in-law mur¬ 
mured disapprovingly; the brothers looked at their 
wives sarcastically. From that moment, none of them 
took any further interest in the marriage of the in¬ 
tractable girl. Her old uncle was the only person 
who, in his naval parlance, dared to board her, and 
he did, occasionally, receive her fire and return her 
broadside for broadside. 


The Bural Ball, 


467 


n. 


THE BALL. 

When the summer season came (after the vote on 
the budget) this family, a true likeness of the parlia¬ 
mentary families on the other side of the British Chan¬ 
nel, which have a foothold in all ministries and ten 
votes in the Commons, flew off like a covey of birds 
to the beautiful regions of Aulnay, Antony, and 
Chatenay. The opulent receiver-general, the husband 
of the eldest sister, had lately bought a country-seat 
in that vicinity, and though ^milie despised all ple¬ 
beians, that sentiment did not lead her so far as to dis¬ 
dain the advantages of bourgeois wealth. She there¬ 
fore accompanied her sister to her sumptuous villa, 
less from affection for the members of her family, who 
went with them, than from the rigid rule of good society, 
which imperiously requires all women who respect 
themselves to leave Paris during the summer season. 
The verdant meadows of Sceaux fulfilled these exac¬ 
tions of good taste and public duty suitably, and 
Emilie agreed to go there. 

As it is doubtful whether the reputation of the raral 
ball of Sceaux has ever reached beyond the limits of 
the department of the Seine, it is necessary to give 
a few details on this hebdomadal f^te, which threat¬ 
ened at that time to become an institution. The envi- 


4G8 


The Bural Ball, 


rons of the little town of Sceaux enjoys the reputation 
of delightful scenery. Perhaps, however, it is really 
commonplace, and owes its celebrity to the stupid 
ignorance of the Parisian bourgeoisie, who, issuing 
from the close and narrow streets in which they are 
buried, incline naturally to admire the plains of Beauce. 
Nevertheless, as the poetic woods of Aulnay, the hill¬ 
sides of Antony, and the valley of the Bievre are in¬ 
habited by artists who have travelled, by foreigners, 
by persons difficult to please, and by a number of 
pretty women who are not without taste, we may sup¬ 
pose that the transient Parisian visitors were right. 

But Sceaux possesses another charm in addition to 
its scenery, not less attractive to Parisians. In the 
middle of a garden where many delightful points of 
view are obtained, stands an immense rotunda, open 
on all sides, the light and airy dome of which is sup¬ 
ported by elegant pillars. This rural dais shelters a 
ballroom. It seldom happens that even the most con¬ 
ventional and proper of the neighboring proprietors 
and their families do not converge at least once or 
twice during the season toward this palace of the vil¬ 
lage Terpsichore, either in brilliant cavalcades, or in 
light and elegant carriages which cover with dust 
philosophical pedestrians. The hope of meeting there 
some women of the great world and being seen by 
them, the hope (less often betrayed) of meeting young 
peasant-women as demure as judges, brings, Sunday 
after Sunday, to the ball of Sceaux, swarms of law¬ 
yers’ clerks, disciples of Esculapius, and other youths 
whose fresh complexions are discoloring behind the 
counters of Paris, Quite a number of bourgeois mar- 


The Bural Ball. 


469 


riages are yearly planned to the sounds of the orches¬ 
tra, which occupies the centre of the circular hall. If 
that could speak, what tales of love it might tell! 

This interesting medley of classes made the ball of 
Sceaux, in those days, more spicy and amusing than 
other rural balls in the neighborhood of Paris, over 
which its rotunda, the beauty of its site, and the 
charms of its garden, gave it additional advantages. 
^Imilie at once proclaimed her desire to “play popu¬ 
lace ” at this lively rural scene, and declared she 
should take an enormous amount of pleasure in it. 
Her family were astonished at this fancy for mixing in 
such a mob; but to play at incognito has always had 
a singular charm for persons of rank. Mademoiselle 
de Fontaine expected to derive much amusement from 
citizen manners; she saw herself leaving in more than 
one bourgeois soul the memory of a look or a fasci¬ 
nating smile; she laughed to think of the awkward 
dancing, and she sharpened her pencils in preparation 
for the scenes with which she expected to enrich her 
satirical album. 

Sunday arrived to put an end to her impatience. 
The party from Planat made their way on foot to avoid 
giving annoyance to the rest of the company. The 
family had dined early. The month of May was a 
delightful season for such an escapade. Mademoiselle 
de Fontaine's first sensation was one of surprise at 
finding under the rotunda a number of persons dancing 
quadrilles who appeared to belong to the best society. 
She saw, indeed, here and there, a few young men 
who had evidently put their month’s savings into the 
joy of shining for this one day; but, on the whole, 


470 


The Rural Ball, 


there was little of satire to glean and none to harvest. 
She was amazed to find pleasure arrayed in cambric so 
much like pleasure robed in satin, and the citizen 
female dancing with as much grace as the noble lady, 
sometimes with more. Most of the toilets were 
simple and becoming. Those of the assembly who 
represented the lords of the soil, namely, the peasants, 
kept in the background with remarkable politeness. 
Mademoiselle £milie would have been forced to make 
a study of the various elements composing the scene 
before discovering the slightest subject of ridicule. 

But, as it happened, she had no time for malicious 
criticism, no leisure to listen for those absurd speeches 
which satirical minds delight to fasten on. The 
proud girl suddenly met in the midst of this vast field 
a fiower, — the comparison is in order, — a flower, the 
color and brilliancy of which acted on her imagination 
with the prestige of novelty. It sometimes happens 
that we look at a gown, a curtain, or a bit of white 
paper so abstractedly that we do not at first see some 
stain, or some vivid beauty which later strikes our 
eye as if it had just come to the place where we see 
it. By a species of moral phenomenon of the same 
kind. Mademoiselle de Fontaine now beheld in a young 
man the type of those external perfections she had 
dreamed of for years. 

Seated on one of the common chairs which sur¬ 
rounded the dancing circle, she had carefully placed 
herself at the extremity of the group formed by her 
family party, so as to be able to rise and move about 
as she fancied. She sat there, turning her opera-glass 
impertinently on all around her, even those in her 


The Rural Ball, 


471 


immediate vicinity; and she was making remarks as 
she might have done in a gallery over portraits or 
genre pictures, when suddenly her eyes were caught by 
a face which seemed to have been placed there, ex¬ 
pressly, in the strongest light, to exhibit a personage 
out of all proportion with the rest of the scene. 

The stranger, dreamy, and apparently solitary, 
leaned lightly against one of the columns that sup¬ 
ported the roof, with his arms folded, slightly bending 
forward as though a painter were taking his portrait. 
His attitude, though proud and full of grace, was 
entirely free from affectation. No gesture showed 
that he held his face at three-quarters, inclining 
slightly to the right, like Alexander and like Byron 
and several other great men, for the purpose of attract¬ 
ing attention. His eyes followed the motions of a 
lady who was dancing, and their expression betrayed 
some powerful sentiment. His slim and agile figure 
recalled the proportions of the Apollo. Fine black 
hair curled naturally on his high forehead. Made¬ 
moiselle de Fontaine, at her first glance, noticed the 
fineness of his linen, the freshness of his kid gloves, 
evidently from the best maker, and the smallness of 
a foot well-shod in a boot of Irish leather. He wore 
none of those worthless trinkets which a counter- 
Lovelace or the fops of the National Guard affect. A 
black ribbon, to which his eyeglass was attached, 
alone floated over a waistcoat of elegant shape. 
Never had the exacting Emilie seen the eyes of man 
shaded by lashes so long and so curving. Melancholy 
and passion were both in that face, the tone of which 
was olive, and the features manly. His mouth seemed 


472 


The Rural Ball. 


ready to smile and to raise the corners of its eloquent 
lips; but this expression, far from denoting gayety, 
revealed, on the contrary, a certain graceful sadness. 
There was too much future promise in that head, too 
much distinction in the whole person not to make an 
observer desire to know him; the most perceptive 
observer would have seen that here was a man of 
talent, brought to this village ball by some powerful 
interest. 

This mass of observations cost Emilie’s quick mind 
but a moment’s attention, during which moment, how¬ 
ever, this privileged man, subjected to severe analysis, 
became the object of her secret admiration. She said 
to herself, “He is a noble, —he must be.” Then she 
rose suddenly and went, followed by her brother, the 
lieutenant-general, toward the column on which the 
stranger leaned, pretending to watch the quadrille, but 
not losing, thanks to an optical manoeuvre familiar to 
woman, a single one of the young man’s movements 
as she approached him. The stranger politely yielded 
his place to the new-comers and went to another col¬ 
umn, against which he leaned. Emilie, more piqued 
at this civility than she would have been by an imper¬ 
tinence, began to talk to her brother in a raised tone 
of voice, louder than good taste admitted. She nodded 
and shook her head, multiplied her gestures, and 
laughed without much reason, far less to amuse her 
brother than to attract the attention of the imperturb¬ 
able stranger. None of these little artifices succeeded; 
and then it occurred to Mademoiselle de Fontaine to 
follow the direction of the j’oung man’s glances. On 
doing so, she saw at once the cause of his absorption. 


The Bural Ball, 


473 


In the middle of the quadrille directly before her, a 
pale young girl was dancing, who was like those 
Scottish deities whom Girodet has painted in his vast 
composition of French warriors received by Ossian. 
£milie thought at first she must either be or belong 
to a distinguished lady who had lately come to occupy 
a neighboring country-house. Her partner was a 
young man of fifteen, with red hands, nankeen trou¬ 
sers, blue coat, and white shoes, which proved that her 
love for dancing made her not difficult to please in the 
matter of partners. Her movements did not show the 
languor of her apparent feebleness; but a faint flush 
colored her delicate cheeks and was beginning to 
spread over her face. Mademoiselle de Fontaine went 
nearer to the quadrille in order to examine the young 
stranger when she returned to her place, while the 
vis-a-vis repeated the figure she had just executed. 
But at this moment the young man advanced, stooped 
to the pretty dancer, and said, in a masterful, yet 
gentle tone of voice, these words, which Emilie dis¬ 
tinctly overheard:— 

“Clara, my child, do not dance any more.” 

Clara gave a little pout, nodded her head in sign of 
acquiescence, and ended by smiling. After the dance 
was over the young man took all the precautions of a 
lover in wrapping a cashmere shawl around the girl’s 
shoulders, and making her sit away from the draught. 
Presently Mademoiselle de Fontaine saw them rise 
and walk round the enclosure like persons intending 
to take their departure, and she followed them hastily, 
under pretence of admiring the views from the garden. 
Her brother lent himself with malicious good-humor 


474 


The Rural Ball. 


to the various caprices of this vagabond ramble. 
Emilie soon perceived her elegant couple getting into 
a tilbury held by a groom on horseback, and at the 
moment when the young man gathered up the reins 
she obtained from him one of those glances that are 
aimlessly cast upon a crowd; next, she had the satis¬ 
faction of seeing him turn twice to look at her again. 
The lady did likewise. Was she jealous? 

“I presume that now, having examined the garden, 
thoroughly,” said her brother, “we may return to the 
dance.” 

“I am willing,” she answered. “Do you think that 
young girl can be a sister of Lady Dudley? ” 

“Lady Dudley may have a sister staying with her,” 
replied the Baron de Fontaine, “but she can’t be a 
young girl.” 

The next day Mademoiselle de Fontaine was pos¬ 
sessed with a strong desire to ride on horseback. 
Little by little she brought her old uncle and her 
brothers to accompany her daily in certain early morn¬ 
ing rides, very beneficial, she declared, for her health. 
She particularly delighted in the country about Lady 
Dudley’s house. But in spite of her cavalry manoeu¬ 
vres she did not find the stranger as promptly as her 
joyous hopes predicted. Several times she returned 
to the rural ball, but in vain. The stranger who had 
fallen from heaven to rule her dreams and adorn them 
appeared not again. Nothing spurs the dawning love 
of a young girl like an obstacle; but there was, never¬ 
theless, a moment when Mademoiselle Emilie de Fon¬ 
taine was on the point of abandoning her strange and 
secret quest, despairing of the success of an enterprise 


The Rural Ball, 


475 


the singularity of which may give some idea of her 
daring character. She might, indeed, have ridden 
about the neighborhood indefinitely without meeting 
her unknown hero. Clara — since Clara was the name 
that Elmilie had overheard — was not English; she did 
not belong to Lady Dudley’s household, and the gen¬ 
tleman who accompanied her did not reside near the 
balmy groves of Chatenay. 

One evening, as Emilie was riding alone with her 
uncle, who enjoyed a cessation of hostilities from his 
gout during the summer, she met the carriage of Lady 
Dudley. That illustrious foreigner was accompanied 
by Monsieur Felix de Vandenesse. Emilie recog¬ 
nized the handsome couple, and her past suppositions 
were dissolved like a dream. Provoked, like any 
other woman frustrated in her scheme, she turned her 
horse and rode so rapidly homeward that her uncle had 
all the trouble in the world to keep up with her. 

“Apparently I’m too old to understand these young 
things,” thought the old sailor as he urged his horse to 
a gallop. “Or perhaps the youth of these days is n’t 
the same as it was in mine— But what’s my niece 
about now ? Look at her, making her horse take short 
steps, like a gendarme patrolling Paris. Wouldn’t 
one think she was trying to hem in that worthy fellow, 
who looks like an author composing poetry? Yes, to 
to be sure, he has an album in his hand! Faith! 
what a fool I am! no doubt that’s the young man 
we ’ve been chasing all along.” 

At this thought the old sailor checked the speed of 
his horse so as to reach his niece as noiselessly as he 
could. In spite of the veil which years had drawn 


476 


The Rural Ball. 


before his gray eyes the Comte de Kergarouet saw 
enough to note the signs of some unusual agitation in 
the girl, in spite of the indifference she endeavored to 
assume. Her piercing eyes were fixed in a sort of 
stupor on the stranger, who was tranquilly walking in 
front of her. 

“That’s surely it!” thought the old gentleman. 
“She is making a stern chase of him, like a pirate 
after a merchantman. When she loses sight of him 
she ’ll be in a fine state at not knowing who he is, 
whether a marquis or a bourgeois. Ah! those young 
heads, those young heads! they ought always to have 
an old wig like me at their elbow — ” 

Suddenly he set spurs to his horse to startle that of 
his niece, and passed so rapidly between ^milie and 
the stranger that he forced the latter to jump back 
upon the grass that bordered the road. Stopping his 
horse, the count cried out: — 

“Couldn’t you get out of the way?” 

“Ah, pardon me,” replied the stranger. “I was 
not aware it was my place to make excuses for your 
nearly knocking me down.” 

“Enough of that, friend!” returned the old sailor, 
gruffly, in a tone of voice which was meant to be 
insulting. 

At the same time the count raised his whip as if to 
strike his horse, but he let the end of it touch the 
shoulder of the young man as he said: — 

“The liberals always reason, and the man who rea¬ 
sons ought to be wise.” 

The young man jumped into the road on hearing the 
words, and said, in an angry voice; — 


The Rural Ball, 


47T 


“Monsieur, I can hardly believe, seeing your white 
hair, that you still amuse yourself by seeking 
duels — ” 

“ White hair! ” cried the sailor, interrupting him; 
“you lie in your throat; it is only gray.” 

A dispute thus begun became, in a few seconds, so 
hot that the young adversary forgot the tone of moder¬ 
ation he tried to use. At this moment Emilie rode 
anxiously back to them, and the count gave his name 
hurriedly to the young man, telling him to say noth¬ 
ing more in presence of the lady who was intrusted 
to his care. The young stranger could not help smil¬ 
ing, but he gave his card to the old gentleman, re¬ 
marking that he lived in a country-house at Chevreuse, 
after which he disappeared rapidly. 

“You came near killing that poor fellow, niece,” 
said the count, riding up to Emilie. “Why don’t you 
hold your horse in hand? You left me to compromise 
my dignity in order to cover your folly; whereas if 
you had stayed on the spot one of your looks or civil 
words, which you can say prettily enough when you 
don’t want to be impertinent, would have mended 
matters even if you had broken his arm.” 

“My dear uncle, it was your horse, not mine, that 
caused the accident. I really think you ought to give 
up riding; you are not half so good a horseman as 
you were last year. But instead of talking about 
trifles — ” 

“Trifles! the devil! Do you call it a trifle to be 
impertinent to your uncle ? ” 

“ we had much better follow that young man and 
see if he is hurt. He is limping, uncle, see! ” 


478 


The Rural Ball, 


“No, he is running. I gave him a good lesson.” 

“Ah! uncle, that was just like you.” 

“Stop, niece,” said the count, catching £milie’s 
horse by the bridle. “I don’t see the necessity of 
running after some shopkeeper, who may think him¬ 
self only too happy to be run down by a pretty young 
girl and the commander of the ‘ Belle-Poule.’ ” 

“Why do you think he is a shopkeeper, uncle? I 
think, on the contrary, that his manners are very 
distinguished.” 

“Everybody has manners in these days.” 

“Everybody has not the air and style of social life; 
I ’ll lay a wager with you that that young man is 
noble.” 

“You didn’t have time to examine him.” 

‘‘But it is n’t the first time I have seen him.” 

“Ha, ha! ” laughed her uncle; “and it is n’t the first 
time you have hunted for him, either.” 

^Imilie colored, and her uncle amused himself by 
leaving her a while embarrassed; then he said: — 

“Emilie, you know I love you as my own child, 
because you are the only one of the family who keeps 
the legitimate pride of high birth. Ah! my little 
niece, who’d have thought good principles would have 
become so rare? Well, I wish to be your confidant. 
My dear little girl, I see you are not indifferent to 
that young gentleman. You know what that means. 
Therefore, let me help you. Let us both keep the 
secret, and I ’ll promise to introduce him to you in 
a salon.” 

“When, uncle?” 

“To-morrow.” 


The Rural Ball. 479 

“But, my dear uncle, you won’t bind me to any¬ 
thing?” 

“To nothing at all; you can bombard him, set fire 
to him, make a wreck of him if you please. And he 
won’t be the first, either.” 

“How kind you are, uncle.” 

As soon as the count got home he put on his spec¬ 
tacles, pulled the card from his pocket, and read the 
name, “Maximilien Longueville, rue du Sentier.” 

“You needn’t feel uneasy,” he said later to Emilie; 
“you can harpoon him in safety; he belongs to one 
of the great historical families, and if he isn’t peer of 
France now he can certainly become so.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“That’s my secret.” 

“Do you know his name?” 

The count nodded his gray head, which was some¬ 
thing like an old oak stump, around which a few 
autumn leaves were clinging. At that nod his niece 
ran to him to try the ever fresh effect of her coquet¬ 
ries. Learned in the art of cajoling the old sailor, 
she coaxed him like a child with the tenderest words. 
She even went so far as to kiss him, in order to obtain 
the important secret. But the old man, who passed 
his life in making his niece play such scenes, let her 
entreat and pet him for a long time. Presently she 
grew angry and sulked; then, under the spur of curi¬ 
osity, she coaxed again. The diplomatic mariner first 
obtained her solemn promise to behave with more 
discretion, to be more gentle, less self-willed, to spend 
less money, and, above all, to tell him everything. 
This treaty being concluded and signed by a kiss 


480 


The Rural Ball, 


which he deposited on ^milie’s white forehead, he 
seated her on his knee, placed the card before her eyes, 
with his two thumbs covering the print, and let her 
make out, letter by letter, the name of Longueville, 
obstinately refusing to show her more. 

This event made the secret sentiments of Made¬ 
moiselle de Fontaine even more intense, and she spent 
the greater part of the night in picturing to her mind’s 
eye the brilliant dreams with which she fed her hopes. 
Thanks to chance, so often invoked, Emilie now saw 
something besides a mere chimera in her visions of 
conjugal life. Like all young girls, who are ignorant 
of the risks of love and marriage, she was captivated 
by the deceitful externals of the two conditions. In 
other words, her sentiments were like other caprices 
of early youth, sweet but cruel errors which exercise a 
fatal influence on the existence of girls who are inex¬ 
perienced enough to take upon their own shoulders the 
responsibility of their future happiness. 

The next morning, before Emilie was awake, her 
uncle had ridden to Chevreuse. Finding in the court¬ 
yard of an elegant country-house the young man he 
had so wantonly insulted the night before, he went up 
to him with the affectionate politeness of the old men 
of the olden time. 

“My dear monsieur,” he said, “could any one 
believe that I should, at the age of sixty-three, get up 
a quarrel with the son of one of my oldest friends? I 
am a vice-admiral, monsieur; which is proof enough 
that I think no more of fighting a duel than of smok¬ 
ing a cigar. In my day, young fellows could n’t be 
friends till they had seen the color of each other’s 


The Bural Ball. 


481 


blood. ventre-de-biche! I had, you must know, 

taken a trifle too much grog aboard, and I ran foul of 
you. Shake hands! I’d rather receive a hundred re¬ 
buffs from a Longueville than give the slightest pain 
to any of the family.” 

Though at first the young man was inclined to be 
cold to the Comte de Kergarouet, it was impossible to 
hold out long against his hearty manner, and he 
allowed himself to be shaken by the hand. 

“You are going out,” said the count; “don’t let me 
detain you. But, unless you have other plans, come 
and dine with me to-day at the Pavilion Planat. My 
nephew, the Comte de Fontaine, is a man you ought 
to know. And, besides, morhleu! I want to repair 
my rudeness by presenting you to four or five of the 
prettiest women of Paris. Ha, ha! young man, your 
brow unclouds! Well, I like young people, and I want 
to see them happy. Their happiness reminds me of 
those blessed days of youth when adventures were 
never lacking. Gay! oh, we were gay then, I can 
tell you. Nowadays, you reason, you worry about 
all sorts of things, as if there had never been a fif¬ 
teenth or sixteenth century.” 

“But, monsieur, are not we right to do so? The 
sixteenth century gave Europe religious liberty only, 
whereas the nineteenth will give her poli — 

“Stop, stop, don’t talk politics. I’m an old fogy 
of an ultra. But for all that, I don’t prevent young 
fellows from being revolutionists, provided they allow 
the king to disperse their meetings.” 

Riding on together a little way, the count and his 
companion were soon in the heart of the woods. The 

31 


482 


The Mural Ball. 


old sailor selected a slim young birch, stopped his 
horse, pulled out a pistol, and sent a ball through its 
stem at forty paces. 

“You see, my dear fellow, that I have no reason to 
fear a duel,” he remarked, with comic gravity, as he 
looked at Monsieur Longueville. 

“Nor I, either,” said the young man, pulling out his 
own pistol. Aiming for the count’s hole he put his 
ball close beside it. 

“That’s what I call a well brought-up young man,” 
cried the count, with enthusiasm. 

During this ride with the man he already regarded 
as his nephew, he found several opportunities to 
make inquiries as to those trifling accomplishments 
the possession of which constituted, according to his 
peculiar code, a finished gentleman. 

“Have you any debts?” he asked, finally, after a 
variety of other questions. 

“No, monsieur.” 

“What! you pay for what you buy! ” 

“Punctually, monsieur; otherwise we should lose 
our credit and standing.” 

“But of course you have a mistress? Ah! you blush, 
young man. How times have changed, to be sure! 
AYith these ideas of legality, Kantism, liberty, youth 
is spoiled. You have neither Guimard, nor Duthe, nor 
creditors, and you don’t know heraldry! Why, my dear 
young friend, you are not hrought-up at all! Let me 
tell you that he who does n’t commit his follies in the 
spring is certain to commit them in winter. If I 
have eighty thousand francs a year at seventy it is 
because I ran through my capital at thirty— Oh! 


The Rural Ball. 


483 


with my wife, honorably. Nevertheless your imper¬ 
fections will not prevent me from presenting you at 
the Pavilion Planat. Remember that you have prom¬ 
ised to come, and I shall expect you.’’ 

What an odd little man! ” thought Longueville; 
“he is lively and robust, but — though he tries to 
seem kindly, I shall not trust him.” 

The next day, about four o’clock, as the family 
party were scattered about in the salons and billiard- 
room at Planat, a servant announced: — 

“Monsieur de Longueville.” 

Having already heard of him from the Comte de 
Kergarouet, the whole company, even to a billiard- 
player who missed his stroke, gathered to see the new¬ 
comer, as much to watch Mademoiselle de Fontaine’s 
face as to judge of the phoenix who had won the day 
in defiance of so many rivals. Manners that were full 
of ease, courteous politeness, a style of dress both 
elegant and simple, and a voice which vibrated to the 
heart of all hearers at once obtained for Monsieur 
Longueville the good-will of the whole family. He 
did not seem unused to the luxury now about him. 
Though his conversation was that of a man of the 
world, it was easy to see that he had received a bril¬ 
liant education, and that his knowledge was solid and 
also extensive. He used, for instance, the proper 
technical word in a slight discussion which the count 
started on naval constructions, which led one of the 
women present to remark that he must have been 
educated at the Nicole Polytechnique. 

“I agree with you, madame,” he replied, “that it is 
an honor to have been educated there.” 


484 


The Rural Ball, 


In spite of much urging, he declined politely, hut 
firmly, the urgent invitation of the family that he 
should stay to dinner; and he put an end to all remarks 
from the ladies by saying that he was the Hippocrates 
of a young sister Avhose delicate health required inces¬ 
sant watching. 

“Monsieur is perhaps a physician?” said one of 
Emilie’s sisters-in-law, rather maliciously. 

“No, monsieur was educated at the Ecole Polytech¬ 
nique,” interposed Mademoiselle de Fontaine, whose 
face had brightened with the richest tints on hearing 
that the lady she had seen at the ball was Monsieur 
Longueville’s sister. 

“But, my dear sister, a man can be educated at the 
Ecole Polytechnique and yet be a physician. Isn’t 
that so, monsieur?” 

“Madame, the two things are not incompatible,” re¬ 
plied the young man. 

All eyes rested on Emilie, who looked with a sort of 
uneasy curiosity at the attractive stranger. She 
breathed more freely when he added, with a smile, — 

“I have not the honor of being a physician, 
madame, and I have even declined an opportunity to 
enter the government service, in order to maintain my 
independence.” 

“And you did right,” said the count. “But how 
can you call it an honor to be a doctor? Ah! my 
young friend, for a man like you — ” 

“Monsieur le comte, I feel infinite respect for all 
professions that are useful.” 

“I’ll agree to that; you respect professions, I sus¬ 
pect, as other young men respect dowagers.” 


The Rural Ball. 


485 


Monsieur Longueville’s visit was neither too long 
nor too short. He withdrew at the moment when he 
had pleased every one and when the curiosity of all 
was fairly roused. 

“That’s a sly fellow,” said the count, returning to 
the salon, after seeing the young man to the door. 

Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who alone was in the 
secret of this visit, had made a somewhat choice toi¬ 
let to attract the eyes of the young man; but she had 
the small annoyance of perceiving that he paid her less 
attention than she thought her due. The family were 
a good deal surprised at the silence into which she 
retired. Usually Emilie displayed her coquettish 
charms, her clever chatter, and the inexhaustible elo¬ 
quence of her glances and her attitudes on each new¬ 
comer. Whether it was that the musical voice of the 
young man and the attraction of his manners had 
seriously charmed her, and that this real sentiment had 
given her a change of heart, it is certain that her 
behavior lost all affectation. Becoming simple and 
natural she was all the more beautiful. Some of her 
sisters, and an old lady, a friend of the family, saw a 
refinement of coquetry in this conduct. They sup¬ 
posed that finding a young man worthy of her she 
intended to show him slowly her charms, and then to 
dazzle him suddenly when her mind was made up. 

Every member of the family was curious to know 
what the capricious girl thought of the stranger; but 
when, during dinner, they each took occasion to endow 
Monsieur Longueville with some fresh merit. Made¬ 
moiselle de Fontaine was mute until a slight sarcasm 
from her uncle roused her suddenly from her apathy; 


486 


The Rural Ball, 


she then said, in a pointed manner, that such celestial 
perfections must cover some great defect, and that 
for her part she should be careful not to judge of so 
clever a man at first sight. 

“Those who please every one please no one in par¬ 
ticular,” she added; “and the worst of all defects is 
to have none.” 

Like all young girls who fall in love, fimilie fondly 
hoped to hide her feelings in her heart by misleading 
the Argus eyes that surrounded her; but at the end of 
a fortnight there was not a single member of this 
numerous family who was not initiated into her secret. 

At Monsieur Longueville’s third visit Emilie felt . 
that she attracted him. This discovery gave her such 
intoxicating pleasure that she felt surprised at herself 
when she reflected on it. There was something humili¬ 
ating to her pride in it. Accustomed to feel herself 
the centre of the world she lived in, she was now 
obliged to recognize a power which controlled her in 
spite of herself. She tried to rebel against it, but 
she was wholly unable to drive from her heart the 
seductive image of the young man. Then came 
uneasiness. Two characteristics of Monsieur Longue- 
ville were very unwelcome, both to the general curi¬ 
osity and that of Mademoiselle de Fontaine in partic¬ 
ular; namely, his discretion and his modesty. He 
never spoke of himself, or of his family, or his occu¬ 
pations. In spite of the traps which Emilie repeat¬ 
edly laid for him in conversation, he managed to evade 
them all with the cleverness of a diplomatist who 
means to keep his secret. If she talked of painting, 
Monsieur Longueville replied as a connoisseur. If 


The Rural Ball, 


48T 


she tried music, the young man showed, without 
conceit, that he could play the piano fairly Tvell. One 
evening he delighted the company by blending his 
delightful voice with that of Emilie in one of Cima- 
rosa’s fine duets. But if any one attempted to dis¬ 
cover whether he were an artist of any kind, he joked 
about his accomplishments with so much grace that 
he left these w’omen, practised as they were in the art 
of divining such secrets, unable to discover the social 
sphere to which he belonged. No matter with what 
vigor the old admiral flung a grapnel to the vessel, 
Longueville managed to slip by it with a suppleness 
which preserved the charm of mystery; and it w'as all 
the more easy for him to keep his incognito at the 
Pavilion Planat, because the curiosity he there aroused 
never exceeded the limits of politeness. 

Emilie, tortured by this reserve, fancied she might 
get more from the sister than from the brother, and 
she now attempted, with the help of her uncle, to 
bring that hitherto mute personage. Mademoiselle 
Clara Longueville, on the scene. The society at the 
Pavilion expressed an extreme desire to know so 
amiable a young lady and to afford her some amuse¬ 
ment. An informal ball was proposed and accepted, 
and the ladies felt certain of getting the truth from a 
girl of sixteen. 

In spite of these little clouds of doubt, a vivid light 
had entered the soul of Mademoiselle de Fontaine, 
who found a new and delightful charm in life when 
connected with another being besides herself. She 
began to conceive the true nature of social relations. 
Whether happiness makes better beings of us, or 


488 


The Eural Ball, 


whether her mind was too occupied to tease and har¬ 
ass others, it is certain that she became less caustic, 
gentler and more indulgent. This change in her char¬ 
acter delighted the astonished family. Perhaps, after 
all, her selfishness was to turn into love. Merely to 
expect the arrival of her reserved adorer was joy. 
Though a single word of passion had never passed 
between them she knew herself loved. With what 
art she now enabled her unknown lover to display his 
accomplishments and the treasures of an education that 
was evidently varied. Conscious that she herself was 
being carefully observed, she felt her defects and tried 
to conquer those which her training had so fatally 
encouraged. It was indeed a first homage paid to 
love, and a bitter reproach which her awakened heart 
made to itself. The result was that, wanting to please, 
she fascinated; she loved, and was idolized. 

Her family, knowing how amply her pride protected 
her, allowed her enough liberty to enjoy those little 
youthful happinesses which give such charm and such 
vigor to young love. More than once the young man 
and Emilie walked alone about the shrubbery of the 
park, where nature was decked like beauty for a ball. 
More than once they held those vague and aimless con¬ 
versations the emptiest words of which conceal the 
deepest sentiments. Together they admired the 
setting sun and its glowing colors. They gathered 
daisies to pluck the leaves; they sang the passionate 
duets of Pergolesi and Rossini, using those notes as 
faithful interpreters to express their secret feelings. 


The Rural Ball, 


489 


III. 

IN WHICH THE WORST COMES TO THE WORST. 

The day of the ball arrived. Clara Longueville 
and her brother, whom the footmen persisted in deco¬ 
rating with the particle, were the heroes of it. For 
the first time in her life Mademoiselle de Fontaine saw 
the triumph of another girl with pleasure. She lav¬ 
ished, in all sincerity, upon Clara, those pretty caresses 
and attentions which women often show to each other 
to excite the jealousy of men. Emilie had an object 
of her own, however; she wanted to obtain the secret. 
But Mademoiselle Longueville proved to have even 
more discretion and more cleverness than her brother, 
for she did not even seem to be reserved,— keeping 
the conversation away from personal interests, but 
giving it so great a charm on other subjects that 
Mademoiselle de Fontaine felt a sort of envy, and 
called her “the siren.” Though ^milie’s intention 
was to question Clara, it was Clara who questioned 
Emilie; she wanted to judge the girl, and the girl 
judged her; she was even provoked with herself for 
letting her real self appear in certain answers cleverly 
drawn out of her by Clara, whose modest and inno¬ 
cent air precluded all suspicion of malice. At one 
moment fimilie seemed really angry at having made an 
attack upon plebeians, which Clara herself had 
provoked. 


490 


The Rural Ball, 


“Mademoiselle,” said the charming girl, “I have 
heard so much of you from Maximilieu that I have 
longed to know you; and to know you must be, I 
think, to love you.” 

“Dear Clara, I was afraid I displeased you just no-w, 
in speaking as I did of those who are not noble.” 

“Oh, no; don’t be troubled. In these days such 
discussions have no point; and as for me, I am out¬ 
side of that question.” 

This answer gave Mademoiselle de Fontaine the 
utmost satisfaction, for she interpreted it as people 
interpret oracles, to suit themselves. She looked at 
Maximilien, whose elegance surpassed even that of 
her imaginary type, and her soul was filled with joy 
at the knowledge at last obtained that he was noble. 
Never did the two lovers understand each other so well 
as at this moment; more than once their hands trem¬ 
bled as they met in the figures of the dance. 

Autumn came in the midst of fetes and rural pleas¬ 
ures, during which the charming couple let themselves 
float upon the current of the sweetest of all sentiments, 
strengthening that sentiment in a thousand little ways 
w'hich every one can imagine, for all loves resemble 
one another on certain points. Also they studied each 
other’s characters, as much as persons can study each 
other when they love. 

“Well, never did a fanc}^ turn into a love-match so 
rapidly,” said the old uncle, who watched the proceed¬ 
ings of the young pair as a naturalist watches an insect 
through his microscope. 

The words alarmed Monsieur and Madame de Fon¬ 
taine. The old Vcndean was not as indifferent to his 


The Rural Ball, 


491 


daughter’s marriage as he had lately professed to he. 
He went to Paris to make inquiries, and obtained no 
results. Uneasy at such evident mystery, and before 
he could hear the result of certain inquiries he had set 
on foot in Paris, he thought it his duty to warn his 
daughter to behave with more caution. This paternal 
advice was received with a show of obedience that was 
evidently ironical. 

“But at least, my dear Emilie, if you love him don’t 
let him see it.” 

“ Papa, it is true that I love him, but I shall wait 
for your permission to tell him so.” 

“But reflect, Emilie, that you don’t know anything 
as yet about his family or his station.” 

“I don’t mind that. But, papa, you wished to see 
me married; you gave me liberty to choose,-and I 
have chosen — what more can you want ? ” 

“I want to know, my dear, if the man you have 
chosen is the son of a peer of France,” replied her 
father, sarcastically. 

Emilie was silent for a moment. Then she raised 
her head, looked at her father, and said, with some 
anxiety: — 

“ Who are the Longuevilles? ” 

“The family became extinct in the person of the old 
Due de Rostein-Limbourg, who perished on the 
scaffold in 1793. He was the last scion of the last 
youngest branch.” 

“But, papa, there are several good houses descended 
from bastards. The history of France swarms with 
princes who bear the bar sinister.” 

“Your ideas seemed to have changed,” said the old 
noble, smiling. 


492 


The Rural Ball, 


The next day was the last which the Fontaine family 
were to spend at Planat. ^inilie, whom the advice of 
her father had a good deal disquieted, impatiently 
awaited the hour of young Longueville’s usual visit, 
being determined to obtain some definite explanation 
from him. She went out alone after dinner, and 
made her way to a grove in the park where she knew 
her lover would be sure to search for her. As she 
went along, she thought over the best means of obtain¬ 
ing, without committing herself, a secret so impor¬ 
tant; a difficult thing to do. Until now, no direct 
avowal had sanctioned the feelings which united her 
to this man. She had, like Maximilien, enjoyed the 
delights of unspoken love, but proud as they were, it 
seemed as though both shrank from acknowledging 
their feelings. 

Maximilien Longueville, in whom Clara had inspired 
certain well-founded suspicions on Emilie’s nature, 
felt himself alternately driven onward by the violence 
of his passion, and restrained by the desire to know 
and test a woman to whom he was about to confide the 
happiness of his life. His love did not prevent him 
from seeing in Emilie the faults and prejudices which 
injured her youthful character; but he desired to know 
whether he was truly loved by her in spite of them, 
before speaking to her; he would not risk the fate of 
either his love or his life. He therefore maintained 
an outward silence, which his looks and attitudes and 
slightest actions contradicted. 

On the other hand, the pride natural to a young girl, 
increased in Mademoiselle de Fontaine by the foolish 
vanity of her birth and beauty, prevented her from 


The Bural Ball, 


493 


meeting half-way the declaration which her growing 
passion sometimes urged her to bring about. Thus 
these lovers had instinctively understood their mut¬ 
ual situation without explaining their secret motives. 
There are moments in life when the vague gives pleas¬ 
ure to young souls. 

Seated on a rustic bench, Emilie now thought over 
the events of these three enchanting months. Her 
father’s doubts were the last fears that could touch 
her, and even these she set aside by arguments which 
to an inexperienced girl seemed triumphant. In the 
first place, she convinced herself that it was impossible 
she should be deceived. During the whole summer 
she had never detected in Maximilien a look, or word 
or gesture which indicated a vulgar origin or occupa¬ 
tion ; more than that, his manner of discussing topics 
proved that he was a man whose mind was occupied 
with the highest interests of the nation. “Besides,” 
she thought to herself, “a clerk, a banker, or a mer¬ 
chant would not have leisure to spend a whole summer 
in making love to me in the fields and woods; he 
spends his time as idly as a noble whose life is free of 
care.” Then she abandoned herself to a course of 
meditation far more interesting to her than these pre¬ 
liminary thoughts, and was thus engaged when a slight 
rustling of the foliage let her know that Maximilien 
was looking at her, no doubt with admiration. 

“Don’t you know that it is very wrong to come sud¬ 
denly upon girls in that way?” she said, smiling. 

“Above all when they are thinking about their 
secrets,” replied Maximilien, slyly. 

“Why should n’t I have secrets? ” she asked. “You 
have plenty of your own.” 


494 


The Rural Ball. 


“Were you really thinking of your secrets?” he 
said, laughing. 

“No, I was thinking of yours. I know all about 
mine.” 

“But,” said the young man, gently taking the girl’s 
arm and placing it in his, “perhaps my secrets are 
yours, and your secrets mine.” 

After walking a few steps they reached a grove of 
trees which the setting sun was wrapping in a mist, 
as it were, of reds and browns. This natural magic 
seemed to give solemnity to the moment. The 
eyes of the lovers had never before told each other so 
many things that their lips dared not say. In the 
grasp of this sweet intoxication they forgot the small 
conventions of pride and the cold calculations of their 
mutual distrust. At first they could only express their 
emotions by clasping hands, and so interpreting 
their happy thoughts. 

“Monsieur, I have a question to ask you,” said 
Mademoiselle de Fontaine, after a long silence, in a 
trembling voice, as they slowly paced onward. “ But 
remember, I entreat you, that it is, as it w’ere, forced 
upon me by the situation in which I stand with my 
family.” 

A pause that was terrifying to ^Imilie followed these 
words which she almost stammered. During the 
moment that this silence lasted the girl, hitherto so 
proud, dared not meet the burning glance of the man 
she loved, for she was conscious in her heart of the 
baseness of the words she added: — 

“Are you noble? ” 

When they had left her lips she wished herself at 
the bottom of a lake. 


The Rural Ball. 


495 


“Mademoiselle,” replied Longueville, gravely, his 
face assuming a sort of stern dignity, “I will answer 
that question without evasion when you have answered 
with sincerity the one I now put to you.” 

He dropped the arm of the young girl, who suddenly 
felt alone in the world, and said, “Why do you 
question me about my birth?” She was motionless, 
cold, and silent. “Mademoiselle,” he went on, “let 
us go no farther if we do not comprehend each other. 
I love you,” he added, in a deep and tender tone. 
“Well, then! ” he continued, on hearing the exclama¬ 
tion of joy which the girl could not restrain, “why 
ask me if I am noble?” 

“Could he speak thus if he were not,” cried an in¬ 
ward voice which fimilie believed to have come from 
the depths of her heart. She raised her head grace¬ 
fully, seemed to gather a new life in the look the 
young man gave her, and held out her arm to him as 
though to make a new alliance. 

“You must think I care much for worldly dignities,” 
she said. 

“I have no titles to olfer to my wife,” he replied, half 
in jest and half in earnest. “But if I choose her in 
the highest rank and among those who are accustomed 
to luxury and the pleasures of opulence, I know to what 
my choice obliges me. Love gives all,” he added, 
gayly, “but to lovers only. Married people want 
more than the heavens above them and the velvet of 
the turf at their feet.” 

“He is rich,” thought she. “As for titles, perhaps 
he wants to test me. They have probably told him I 
was fanatical about nobility, and would only marry a 


496 


The Rural Ball. 


peer of France. My cats of sisters may have played 
me just such a trick. I assure you, monsieur,” she 
said aloud, “that although I have had exacting ideas 
as to life and society, I now,” glancing at him in a 
manner to turn his head, “know where a woman 
should look for her real happiness.” 

“I trust that you speak sincerely,” he answered, with 
gentle gravity. “Next winter, my dear ilmilie, in 
less than two months, perhaps, I shall be able to offer 
you the enjoyments of wealth. What this means is 
a secret I am compelled to keep for the present. On 
its success depends my happiness; I dare not say 
ours — ” 

“Oh! say it, say it!” she exclaimed. 

With many tender thoughts and words they slowly 
returned to the house and joined the company in the 
salon. Never had Mademoiselle de Fontaine seen her 
lover so lovable, so pleasing; his slim form, his 
engaging manners seemed to her more charming than 
ever. They sang together in Italian, with such expres¬ 
sion that the company applauded enthusiastically. 
Their final adieu was made in a formal tone which 
covered a secret happiness. This day was to the 
young girl a chain which bound her more closely than 
ever to the destiny of the man she had chosen. The 
force and dignity he displayed in the scene we have 
just related, and in which their mutual sentiments had 
been revealed, may have inspired Mademoiselle de 
Fontaine with a sense of respect without which no 
true love exists. 

Later in the evening, being alone with her father 
and uncle in the salon, the former came up to her, 


The Rural Ball, 


497 


took her hands affectionately, and asked if she had 
obtained any light as to the family and fortune of 
Monsieur Longueville. 

“Yes, my dear father,” she replied, “and I am hap¬ 
pier than I ever thought to be. Monsieur de Longue¬ 
ville is the only man I ever wished to marry.” 

“Very good, £milie,” replied her father; “then I 
know what I must do.” 

“Do you know of any obstacle?” she asked, in real 
anxiety. 

“My dear child, this young man is absolutely un¬ 
known; but, unless he is a dishonest man, he is dear 
to me as a son, because you love him.” 

“Dishonest!” cried Emilie; “oh! I am easy about 
that. My uncle, who introduced him to me, knows 
that much, at least. Tell me, uncle dear, has he ever 
been a pirate, a filibuster, a corsair?” 

“ Ah! I kn^w I should come to this! ” exclaimed the 
old sailor, waking up from a nap. 

He looked about the salon, but his niece had disap¬ 
peared,— like Castor and Pollux, to use one of his 
own expressions. 

“Well, uncle,” said Monsieur de Fontaine, “why 
have you hidden from us all this time what you know 
of this young man? You must have seen what was 
going on. Is Monsieur de Longueville of good 
family? ” 

“I don’t know him from Adam,” cried the admiral. 
“Trusting to the tact of that wilful girl I brought her 
the Saint-Preux she wanted, by means known to my¬ 
self alone. All I know about the lad is that he is a 
fine shot, hunts well, plays a marvellous game of bil- 
82 


498 


The Rural Ball, 


liards, also chess and backgammon; and he fences and 
rides like the Chevalier de Saint-Georges. Also he 
has a most amazing erudition about vineyards; and he 
can cipher like Bareme, and draws and dances and 
sings well. What the devil do you want else? If that 
is n’t all a perfect gentleman need be, show me a bour¬ 
geois who knows as much, or a man who lives more 
nobly than he. You see for yourself he does n’t do 
anything. Does he compromise his dignity in an 
office, and bow down to parvenus, as you call directors- 
general? No, he walks erect. He’s a man. But 
here, by the bye, in the pocket of my waistcoat is the 
card he gave me when he thought, poor innocent! that 
I wanted to cut his throat. Ha! young men nowadays 
haven’t any tricks in their bag. Here’s the card.” 

“Rue du Sentier, number 5,” said Monsieur de Fon¬ 
taine, trying to remember that address among the 
various pieces of information he had obtained from 
his inquiries. “What the devil does that mean? 
Palma, Werbrust and company, wholesale dealers in 
muslins, calicos, and printed cottons of all kinds live 
there— Ah! I have it! Longueville, the deputy, 
has an interest in that firm. Yes, but I know Longue¬ 
ville has a son thirty-two years old, not the least like 
this man, to whom he has just given fifty thousand a 
year in order to marry him to the daughter of a min¬ 
ister; he wants to be made a peer like all the rest. I 
never heard him mention a son called Maximilien. 
And he has n’t a daughter, so far as I know. Who is 
this Clara? Besides, it is open to any adventurer to 
call himself Longueville, or anything else he likes. 
I ’ll make some inquiries about Palma and Werbrust.” 


The Rural Ball, 


499 


“You talk as if you held the stage alone/’ cried the 
old admiral. “Do you count me for nothing? Don’t 
you know that if he is a gentleman I ’ve got more than 
one sack in my lockers to repair his lack of fortune?” 

“As for that, if he is Longueville the deputy’s son, 
he needs nothing; but,” added Monsieur de Fontaine, 
shaking his head from right to left, “he has n’t even 
bought a property which carries a title. Before the 
Revolution he was only an attorney, and the de he has 
stuck on since the Restoration no more belongs to him 
than one half of his wealth.” 

“Ah, bah! happy those whose fathers were hanged! ” 
cried the old sailor, gayly. 

Three or four days later, on one of those fine days 
in November when Parisians find the pavement of 
their boulevard cleansed by a slight touch of frost. 
Mademoiselle de Fontaine, wearing a set of new furs 
which she wished to make the fashion, had gone out 
shopping with two of her sisters-in-law, the two whom 
she was most inclined to ridicule. The three ladies 
were induced to make this expedition less to exhibit 
an elegant new carriage and dresses in the latest style, 
than to see a certain pelerine that one of their friends 
had remarked in the large lace and linen shop at the 
corner of the rue de la Paix. 

As the three sisters entered the shop the Baronne de 
Fontaine pulled ilmilie by the sleeve and pointed out 
to her Maximilien Longueville behind the counter, 
occupied at that moment in receiving money from the 
mistress of the shop, with whom he seemed to be con¬ 
ferring. In his hand he held several patterns which 
left no doubt as to the nature of his occupation. 


600 


The Rural Ball, 


was seized with a cold shudder, fortunately 
uuperceived. Thanks to the savoir-vivre of good 
society, she hid the fury in her heart and replied to 
her sister with the words, “I knew it,” in a richness 
of tone and with an inimitable accent which might 
have made the fortune of an actress on the stage. 

She advanced to the counter; Longueville raised his 
head, put the patterns in his pocket with perfect self- 
possession, bowed to Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and 
came out to meet her, giving her, as he did so, a pene¬ 
trating look. 

“Madame,” he said to the mistress of the shop, who 
had followed anxiously, “I will send the money for 
this bill. My firm prefers to do business in that way. 
But here,” he added, in a whisper, “is a thousand- 
franc note — take it; we will settle the matter between 
us later. You will, I hope, pardon me, mademoi¬ 
selle,” he said, turning back to ^milie, “and be so 
kind as to excuse the tyranny of business.” 

“It seems to me, monsieur, that the matter is one to 
which I am totally indifferent,” replied Mademoiselle 
de Fontaine, looking at him with a vacant air which 
might have led a spectator to think she saw him for 
the first time. 

“Are you speaking seriously?” asked Maximilien, 
in a broken voice. 

For all answer ^Imilie turned her back upon him with 
inconceivable rudeness. These few words, said in a 
low voice, had escaped the notice of the sisters-in-law. 
When, after having purchased the pelerine, the three 
ladies returned to their carriage, fimilie, who was 
sitting on the front seat, could not refrain from glanc- 


The Rural Ball, 


601 


ing into the depths of that odious shop, where she saw 
Maximilien standing with his arms crossed, in the atti¬ 
tude of a man superior to the trouble which had come 
upon him so suddenly. Their eyes met, and each 
gave to the other an implacable look. Each hoped to 
cruelly wound the other’s heart. In a moment they 
found themselves as far apart as if one were in China, 
the other in Greenland. The breath of worldliness 
had withered all! 

A prey to the most violent struggle that ever went 
on in the heart of a young girl, Mademoiselle de Fon¬ 
taine gathered the amplest harvest of bitter fruits 
which prejudice and pettiness ever sowed in a human 
soul. Her face, fresh and velvety a few moments ear¬ 
lier, was furrowed with yellow tones and red stains, 
and even the white of her cheeks turned greenish. In 
the hope of hiding her trouble from her sisters she 
ridiculed the passers in the street or laughed at a cos¬ 
tume; but the laugh was convulsive. She was more 
deeply wounded by the silent compassion of her sisters 
than she would have been by the sharpest sarcasms 
which she might have revenged. She taxed her whole 
mind to drag them into a conversation in which she 
vented her anger in senseless paradoxes of the worst 
taste. On reaching home she became really ill, and 
was seized with a fever which at first showed dangerous 
symptoms. At the end of a month, however, the care 
of her family and her physician restored her entirely. 
Every one hoped that the lesson would subdue her self- 
will ; but she declared there was no shame in having 
made a mistake, and she once more fiung herself into 
society and returned to her former habits of life. If, 


502 


The Rural Ball. 


she said, she had, like her father, influence in the 
Chamber, she would pass a law that all merchants and 
shopkeepers should be branded on the forehead, like 
the sheep of Berry, to the third generation; it was a 
great injury to the monarchy that there was no visible 
difference between a merchant and a peer of France. 

A hundred other such jests were poured out rapidly 
when any unforeseen accident started the topic. But 
those who loved her were conscious through her sar¬ 
casms of a tone of melancholy. Evidently Maxi- 
milien Longueville still reigned at the bottom of that 
inexplicable heart. Sometimes she would be gentle and 
sweet as she had been during the brief period when her 
love was born, and then again she would make herself 
intolerable. Her family excused these variations of 
temper, knowing that they had their rise in sufferings 
known and unknown. The Comte de Kergarouet alone 
obtained some slight control over her, and this was 
partly by gifts and amusements, a species of consola¬ 
tion which seldom misses its effect on a Parisian girl. 

The first ball that Mademoiselle de Fontaine went to 
that winter was at the house of the Neapolitan ambas¬ 
sador. As she was taking her place in a quadrille she 
saw, not far from her, Maxmilien Longueville, who 
nodded slightly to her partner. 

“Is that young man a friend of yours? ” she asked, 
disdainfully. 

“Only my brother,” he replied. 

Emilie could not help trembling. 

“Ah!” continued her partner in a tone of enthu¬ 
siasm, “he is the noblest soul in the world — ” 

“Do you know my name?asked Emilie, interrupt¬ 
ing him, hastily. 


The Rural Ball, 


503 


“No, mademoiselle. It is a crime, I know, not to 
recollect a name which must be on every lip, or, I 
should say, in every heart; but my excuse is that I 
have just returned from Germany. My ambassador, 
who is in Paris on leave of absence, has sent me here 
this evening to serve as chaperon to his amiable wife, 
whom you can see over there in a corner.” 

“A tragic muse,” said Emilie, after examining the 
ambassadress. 

“But that’s her ball face,” returned the young dip¬ 
lomat, laughing. “I must ask her to dance; that's 
why I take my consolation now.” Mademoiselle de 
Fontaine made him a little bow. “I am so surprised,” 
continued the chattering secretary, “to see my brother 
here. On arriving from Vienna I was told he was ill 
in bed, and I wanted to go to him at once; but diplo¬ 
macy and politics leave no time for family affections. 
La paclrona della casa keeps me in attendance, and 
gives me no chance to see my poor Maximilien.” 

“Is your brother, like yourself, in diplomacy? ” said 
Emilie. 

“No,” said the secretary, sighing. “The poor 
fellow has sacrificed himself to me. He and my sister 
Clara have renounced their share of my father’s prop¬ 
erty to make an entail for me. My father is a deputy 
and expects a peerage for his services to the govern¬ 
ment. He has the promise of it,” added the young 
man, in a low voice. “My brother, after getting 
together a little capital, chiefly from our mother’s 
property, has gone into a banking business, and he has 
just made a speculation in Brazil which is likely to 
make him a millionnaire. I am very happy in the 


604 


The Rural Ball, 


thought that I have helped him by my diplomatic rela¬ 
tions to this success. I am now expecting a despatch 
from Brazil which I feel sure will clear that gloomy 
brow of his. Don’t you think him handsome?” 

“His face does n’t seem to me that of a man who 
spends his thoughts on making money,” she replied. 

The young diplomatist gave a glance at the seem¬ 
ingly calm face of his partner. 

”Ah!” said he, “so young ladies can detect the 
thoughts of love beneath all foreheads! ” 

“Is your brother in love? ” asked £milie, in a tone 
of curiosity. 

“Yes. My sister Clara, whom he cares for like a 
mother, wrote me that he had fallen in love with a very 
pretty girl; but I have had no further news of the 
affair. Would you believe it, the poor fellow used to 
get up at five in the morning so as to get through his 
business and ride out into the country, where the lady 
was staying. He ruined a fine thorough-bred horse I 
had sent him. Forgive my chatter, mademoiselle, I 
am just from Germany, where I haven’t heard a word 
of pure French spoken; I am so hungry for French 
faces and sick of Germans that I’d talk, I believe, to 
the griffins on a candlestick. Besides, the fault is 
yours, mademoiselle; you asked me about my brother, 
and when I get on that subject I am irrepressible. I 
should like to tell the whole earth how good and gener¬ 
ous he is. He has given up a hundred thousand francs 
a year to me from our estates at Longueville.” 

If Mademoiselle de Fontaine obtained all this infor¬ 
mation she owed it partly to the cleverness with which 
she questioned her confiding partner. 


The Rural Ball. 


605 


“How can you bear to see your brother selling 
calico and muslins?” asked Emilie, as they finished 
the third figure of the quadrille. 

“How do you know he does?” asked the diplomat¬ 
ist. “Thank heaven! if I do rattle off a flux of words 
I have learned to say no more than I choose, like the 
other fledgling diplomatists of my acquaintance.” 

“I assure you that you told me so.” 

Monsieur de Longueville looked at Mademoiselle de 
Fontaine with a surprise that was full of intelligence. 

A suspicion entered his mind. He glanced from his 
partner to his brother, and guessed all; he clapped his 
hands together, threw up his eyes and began to 
laugh: — 

“I am nothing but a fool,” he said. “You are the 
handsomest person here, my brother is watching you 
furtively, he is dancing in spite of his illness, and you 
are pretending not to see him! Make him happy,” 
he added, as he took her back to her old uncle. “I ’ll 
not be jealous; though perhaps I shall wince a little at 
calling you my sister.” 

However, the two lovers were resolved on being 
inexorable. About two in the morning a collation was 
served in a vast gallery, where, in order to allow per¬ 
sons of the same set to be together, the tables were 
arranged as they are at a restaurant. By one of those 
accidents which are always happening to lovers Made¬ 
moiselle de Fontaine found herself placed at a table 
adjoining that around which sat some very distin¬ 
guished persons. Maximilien was among them, ilmi- 
lie listened with attentive ears to the talk of these 
neighbors. The companion of the young merchant 


506 


The Bural Ball. 


was a Neapolitan duchess of great beauty, and the 
intimacy that he affected to have with her was all 
the more wounding to Mademoiselle de Fontaine be¬ 
cause at that moment she was conscious of a tenfold 
deeper tenderness for her lover than she had ever felt 
before. 

“Yes, monsieur, in my country, true love can make 
all kinds of sacrifices,” the duchess was saying in a 
mincing way. 

“You Italians are far more loving than French¬ 
women,” said Maximilien, looking full at Emilie. 
“They are all vanity.” 

“Monsieur,” said Emilie, quickly, “it is an ill thing 
to calumniate your country. Devotion belongs to all 
lands.” 

“Do you think, mademoiselle,” said the duchess, 
with a sarcastic smile, “that a Parisian woman would 
be capable of following her lover everywhere ? ” 

“Ah! understand me, madame; she would follow 
him to the desert and live in tents, but not behind the 
counter of a shop.” 

fimilie emphasized these words with a gesture of 
disdain. Thus the iufiuence exercised over the girl by 
her fatal education killed her dawning happiness twice, 
and made her life a failure. The apparent coldness 
of Maximilien and the smile of a woman, drew from 
her a sarcasm the treacherous delight of which she 
could not deny herself. 

“Mademoiselle,” said Longueville, in a low voice, 
under cover of the noise the women made when rising 
from table, “no one will ever offer more ardent wishes 
for your happiness than I, Permit me to give you this 


The Rural Ball, 507 

assurance on taking leave of you. I start in a few 
days for Italy.’’ 

“With a duchess, I suppose.” 

“No, mademoiselle, with what may prove a mortal 
illness.” 

“Is that a fancy?” asked ilmilie, giving him an 
uneasy glance. 

“ No,” he answered, “for there are wounds that never 
heal.” 

“You will not go,” said the imperious young girl, 
with a smile. 

“1 shall go,” returned Longueville, gravely. 

“You will find me married on your return, I warn 
you,” she said, coquettishly. 

“I hope so.” 

“Impertinent man! ” she said to herself; “he takes 
a cruel vengeance.” 

A fortnight later Maximilien Longueville started 
with his sister Clara for the balmy and poetic regions 
of la bella Italia,, leaving Mademoiselle de Fontaine a 
victim to bitter regrets. The young secretary of 
legation took up his brother’s quarrel, and revenged 
him publicly by telling everywhere the reasons for the 
rupture. The Comte de Fontaine was obliged to use 
his credit at court to obtain for Auguste Longueville 
a mission to Russia to protect his daughter from the 
ridicule this young and dangerous persecutor heaped 
upon her. 

Not long after, the administration was compelled to 
make a new batch of peers to strengthen the aristo¬ 
cratic body in the Upper Chamber, which was begin¬ 
ning to totter under the voice of an illustrious writer; 


608 


The Rural Ball. 


among them appeared the name of Monsieur de 
Longueville, the father, with the rank of viscount. 
Monsieur de Fontaine was also raised to the peerage, a 
reward due to his devotion during the dark days, and 
also to his name, which was lacking to the roll of the 
hereditary Chamber. 

About this time Emilie, who had now attained her 
majority, made, in all probability, some serious reflec¬ 
tions upon life; for she changed completely in tone 
and manner. Instead of saying ill-natured things to 
her uncle, she began to show him the most affectionate 
attentions; she brought him his crutch with a persist¬ 
ent tenderness which made the family laugh, she gave 
him her arm, she went to drive in his coach, and took 
walks with him daily. She even persuaded him that 
she liked the smell of his pipe, and read his dear 
“ Quotidienne ” aloud to him in the midst of clouds of 
tobacco smoke which the mischievous old fellow would 
sometimes puff at her intentionally. She learned 
piquet to play with him, and she, so fastidious, lis¬ 
tened without impatience to his ever-recurring tales of 
the famous fight of the “Belle Poule,” the manoeuvring 
of the “ Ville de Paris,” the first expedition of Mon¬ 
sieur de Suffren, or the battle of Aboukir. Though the 
old admiral was fond of saying that he knew his lati¬ 
tude and longitude too well for any young corvette to 
overhaul him, the salons of Paris were startled one fine 
morning by the news that Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
had married the Comte de Kergarouet. 

The young countess gave splendid f§tes to divert her 
mind; but she soon found the hollowness of her vor¬ 
tex ; luxury was a poor cover to the emptiness and 


The Bural Ball, 


609 


misery of her suffering soul; in spite of her feigned 
gayety, her beautiful features expressed, for the most 
part, a dull melancholy. She always, however, paid 
great attention to her old husband, and her w^hole con¬ 
duct was so severely proper that the most ill-natured 
critic could find nothing to reprimand. Observers 
thought that the admiral had reserved the right of 
disposing of his fortune so as to hold his wife the more 
securely; but this supposition was unjust both to the 
uncle and to the niece. Their demeanor to each other 
was so judiciously managed that those most interested 
were unable to decide whether the old count treated 
his wife as a father or as a husband; though the 
admiral was heard to say, on more than one occasion, 
that he had saved his niece from a wreck; and that 
in former times at sea he had never abused his rights 
over a shipwrecked enemy who fell into his hands. 

Though the countess aspired to reign in Parisian 
society, and successfully endeavored to hold her own 
against the duchesses de Maufrigneuse and de Chau- 
lieu, the marquises d’Espard and d’Aiglemont, the 
countesses Feraud, de Montcornet, de Restand, Ma¬ 
dame de Camps and Mademoiselle des Touches, she 
did not yield to the love of the young Vicomte de 
Portendum’e, who made her his idol. 

Two years after her marriage, being in one of the 
oldest salons of the faubourg Saint-Germain, Emilie 
heard the name of Monsieur le Vicomte de Longueville 
announced. Her emotion passed unperceived in the 
corner of the salon where she was playing piquet with 
the Bishop of Persepolis. Turning her head, she saw 
her former lover enter the room in the glow of youth 


510 


The Rural Ball. 


and distinction. The death of his father, and that of 
his brother (killed by the climate of St. Petersburg) 
had placed upon his head the hereditary plumes of the 
peerage; his fortune was equal to his station and his 
acquirements; only the evening before, his fiery elo¬ 
quence had electrified the Chamber. At this moment 
he appeared before the eyes of the sad countess, free, 
and adorned with all the advantages she had formerly 
demanded in her ideal lover; and more than all, £milie 
knew well that the Vicomte de Longueville possessed 
that firmness of character in which a woman of sense 
sees the strongest pledge of happiness. She cast her 
eyes upon the admiral, who, to use his own expression, 
was likely to swing at anchor for a long time to come, 
and she cursed the follies and errors of her youth. 

Just then Monsieur de Persepolis remarked with 
his episcopal grace, — 

“My dear lady, you have thrown away the king of 
hearts, and I win. But don’t regret your money; I 
keep it for my ragged schools.” 


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THE DESERTED WOMAN 










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THE DESERTED WOMAN 


To Madame la Duchesse D’ABRANxfes. 

Her affectionate Servant, 

IIonokE de Balzac. 

Early in the spring of 1822 the Parisian doctors 
sent to lower Normandy a young man who was recov¬ 
ering from an inflammatory illness caused by some 
excess of study, possibly of life. His convalescence 
required complete rest, simple food, a cold air, and 
the total absence of all excessive sensations. The 
lush fields of the Bessin and the pale life of the prov¬ 
inces seemed therefore propitious for his recovery. 
He went to Bayeux, a pretty town two leagues from 
the sea, to the house of a cousin who received him 
with the cordiality characteristic of those who live 
habitually in retirement, and to whom the arrival of 
a relation or a friend becomes a joy. 

All little towns resemble each other, except perhaps 
in a few local customs. So that after a few evenings 
spent with his cousin, Madame de Sainte-Severe, or 
with the persons who formed her society, this young 
Parisian, M. le Baron Gaston de Nueil, soon knew all 
there was to know of that exclusive circle who re¬ 
garded themselves as being the w^hole town. Gaston 

33 



514 


The Deserted Woman. 


de Nueil saw in them that immutable clique which 
observers find in all the numerous capitals of the an¬ 
cient States that formed the France of other times. 

First comes the family whose nobility, unknown at 
a distance of fifty leagues, passes in the department 
as being incontestable and of the highest antiquity. 
This species of royal family on a minor scale is re¬ 
motely connected by marriage with the Navarreins, 
the Grandlieus, the Cadignans, and even lays hold of 
the Blamont-Chauvrys. The head of this illustrious 
race is always a determined sportsman. A man with¬ 
out manners, he crushes every one by his nominal 
superiority, tolerates the sub-prefect precisely as he 
submits to taxation; acknov/ledges none of the new 
powers created by the nineteenth century, and calls 
attention to the fact, as a political monstrosity, that 
the prime minister is not a noble. His wife takes a 
peremptory tone, talks loudly, has had adorers, but 
receives the sacramental Easter regularly; she brings 
up her daughters badly, and thinks that their name is 
fortune enough for their establishment. Neither wife 
nor husband has the slightest idea of modern luxury; 
they keep to their old state liveries and ancient forms 
of plate, furniture, and carriages, as they do to their 
manners, customs, and language. This long-past 
splendour comports, however, wdth the thrift of the 
provinces. In short, these are the nobles of the olden 
time, minus the feudal levies, minus the packs of 
hounds and the gold-laced coats; all full of honour 
among themselves, and all devoted to princes whom 
they see only from a distance. This historical, in¬ 
cognito family has the originality of an ancient 


The Deserted Woman, 


515 


tapestry of noted -warp. In it vegetates infallibly 
an uncle or a brother, lieutenant-general, red-rib¬ 
boned, and a courtier, who went to Hanover with 
Marechal Richelieu, and whom you find here like a 
stray leaf from a pamphlet of the days of Louis XV. 

To this fossil family is opposed a richer family, 
but of less ancient nobility. The husband and wife 
spend two months every winter in Paris, the fleeting 
tone and ephemeral passions of which they duly re¬ 
port. Madame is elegant, but rather starched, and 
alwaj-s a little behind in the fashions. Nevertheless, 
she sneers at the ignorance affected by her neigh¬ 
bours; her plate is modern; she has grooms, negro 
pages, and footmen. Her eldest son has a tilbury, 
does nothing, — he is the heir; the younger is auditor 
to the Council of State. The father, very well posted 
in the intrigues of the ministry, relates anecdotes of 
Louis XVIII. and Madame du Cayla; he invests in 
the “five per cents,” avoids conversation about ciders, 
but does sometimes give in to the mania for reducing 
the amount of departmental fortunes; he is member of 
the Council-General, gets his clothes from Paris, and 
wears the cross of the Legion of honour. In short, 
this nobleman has understood the Restoration, and 
coins money with the Chamber; but his royalism is 
less “pure” than that of the family he rivals. He 
takes the “Gazette” and the “Debats;” the other 
family reads only the “Quotidienne.” 

IMonseigneur the bishop, formerly vicar-general, 
floats between these two powers, which render him 
the homage due to religion, but make him feel at 
times the moral that the good La Fontaine has placed 


516 


The Deserted Woman, 


at the end of ‘‘The Ass bearing Relics.” The worthy 
bishop is a commoner. 

Next come secondary stars, nobles who enjoy some 
ten or twelve thousand francs a year; who have been 
captains in the navy, or the cavalry, or nothing at all. 
On horseback along the roads they hold a middle dis¬ 
tance between the rector who bears the sacraments, 
and the controller of taxes on his rounds. Nearly all 
have been pages at Court, or in the mousquetaires, 
and are ending their days peaceably in getting the 
most out of their means; more concerned about their 
timber or their cider than about the monarchy. 
Nevertheless, they converse of the Charter and the 
liberals between two rubbers of whist or games of 
dominoes, after having calculated dots and arranged 
marriages according to genealogies which they know 
by heart. Their wives assume a haughty manner and 
take Court airs in their wicker phaetons; they think 
themselves in full dress when rigged with a scarf 
and a head-dress. They buy two bonnets yearly, after 
mature deliberation, and occasionally import them 
from Paris. They are usually virtuous and gossiping. 

Around these principal elements of the aristocratic 
tribe are grouped a few old maids of quality, who 
have solved the problem of immobility in human 
creatures. They appear to be sealed up in the houses 
where you find them; their figures, their clothes, are 
part of the estate, of the town, of the province; they 
are the tradition, the memory, the spirit thereof. All 
have something rigid and monumental about them; 
they smile, or shake their heads apropos, and, from 
time to time, say things that pass for witty. 


The Deserted Woman, 517 • 

A few rich bourgeois have slipped into this minia¬ 
ture Faubourg St. Germain, thanks to their aristo¬ 
cratic opinions or their money. But once there, in 
spite of their forty years, the clique says of them: 
“That young so and so thinks xcell^'' and helps to 
make them deputies. Usually they are patronized by 
the old maids — which causes gossip. 

Finally, two or three ecclesiastics are admitted into 
this circle of the elite, either because of their cloth or 
because they have intelligence; for these noble per¬ 
sonages, bored by one another, are ready to introduce 
a bourgeois element into their salons very much as a 
baker puts yeast into his dough. 

The amount of intelligence amassed in all these 
heads is composed of a certain quantity of antique 
ideas, with which are mingled a proportion of new 
ideas, which brew together every evening. Like the 
waters of a little cove, the phrases that represent these 
ideas have their dai-y ebb and flow, their ceaseless 
eddy, ever the same; whoso hears to-day its hollow 
echo will hear it to-morrow, a year hence, ever. Their 
immutable verdicts on all things here below form a 
traditional knowledge, to which it is not in the power 
of any human being to add one iota of intelligence. 
The life of these monotonous persons gravitates in a 
sphere of habits as unchangeable as their religious, 
political, moral, and literary opinions. 

If a stranger is admitted to this symposium every 
one will say to him in a tone of irony: “You will not 
find the brilliancy of your Parisian society among 
us; ” and each will censure the lives of his neigh¬ 
bours, endeavouring to have it believed that he him- 


618 


The Deserted Woman. 


self is an exception in this society which he has, 
unsuccessfully, endeavoured to renovate. But if, 
unfortunately, the stranger should strengthen by some 
remark of his own the opinion those people mutually 
entertain of one another, he is at once set down as a 
malicious person, without law or gospel, a corrupt 
Parisian, “such indeed as all Parisians are.” 

When Gaston de Nueil appeared in this little social 
world, where etiquette is perfectly observed, where 
all things within its own life harmonize, and every¬ 
thing is freely stated, nobiliary and territorial values 
being as openly quoted as stocks at the Bourse in the 
financial column of a newspaper, he had been already 
weighed in the infallible scales of Bayeusian opinion. 
His cousin, Madame de Sainte-Severe, had carefully 
told the amount of his fortune and that of his expec¬ 
tations; she had exhibited his genealogical tree and 
boasted of his acquirements, his politeness, his mod¬ 
esty. He therefore received the greeting to which 
he had strictly a right; he was accepted as a sound 
noble, without ceremony because he was only twenty- 
three years old; but certain young persons and their 
mothers looked sweetly upon him. He possessed in 
his own right eighteen thousand francs a year from 
property in the valley of the Auge, and his father 
would leave him, sooner or later, the chateau of 
Manerville with all its dependencies. As for his 
education, his political future, his personal merits, 
his talents, there was no question about them. His 
estates were good and the rentals certain; excellent 
plantations had been made upon them, repairs and 
taxes were paid by the tenant-farmers; the apple- 


The Deserted Woman, 


519 


trees were thirty-eight years old; his father was now 
in treaty for two hundred acres of woodland adjoin¬ 
ing his park, which he meant to inclose with walls. 
No ministerial hopes, no human celebrity could com¬ 
pete against such advantages. Whether from malice 
or calculation, Madame de Sainte-Severe had never 
once mentioned Gaston’s elder brother, neither did 
Gaston say a word about him. But this brother was 
consumptive, and likely to be buried, mourned, and 
forgotten before long. 

Gaston de Nueil began by amusing himself with all 
these personages; he drew, as it were, their faces in 
his album, in all the vapid verity of their angular, 
hooked, and wrinkled countenances, in the droll 
originality of their clothes and their twitchings; he 
delighted in the Normanisms of their idioms, in the 
musty antiquity of their ideas and characters. But 
after having espoused for a while an existence that 
resembled that of squirrels turning in their cage, he 
felt the absence of opposing elements in a life so fixed 
beforehand, like that of monks in cloisters, and be¬ 
fore long he fell into a nervous state which was not 
yet that of ennui or disgust, although it had many of 
the effects of them. After slight sufferings from such 
a transition, the individual finds that he has under¬ 
gone the phenomenon of transplantation into a region 
which is either repugnant to him or in which he soon 
becomes atrophied and leads a stunted life. Com¬ 
monly, if nothing draws him out of this society he 
insensibly adopts its usages, and grows wonted to its 
void, which soon gains upon him and reduces him to 
nonentity. Already Gaston’s lungs were beginning 


520 


The Deserted Woman, 


to get accustomed to this atmosphere. Almost ready 
to admit a sort of vegetating happiness in days passed 
without cares and without ideas, he was beginning to 
lose consciousness of that movement of sap, that con¬ 
stant fructification of minds, which he had so ardently 
enjoyed in the Parisian sphere; he was, in short, 
about to petrify among these petrifications, and stay 
there forever, like the companions of Ulysses content 
with his comfortable surroundings. 

One evening Gaston de Nueil chanced to find him¬ 
self seated between an old lady and one of the vicar- 
generals of the diocese in a panelled salon painted 
gray, floored with large white tiles, decorated with 
family portraits and occupied by four card-tables 
around which sixteen persons were babbling and 
playing whist. There, thinking of nothing, but 
digesting an excellent dinner (the conclusion of the 
day in the provinces), he suddenly found himself 
explaining and justifying to himself the ways of these 
people. He saw how it w^as that they used the same 
cards night after night, on the same worn-out cloths, 
and how it had come to pass that they dressed neither 
for their own sake nor for that of others. He divined 
a vague philosophy in the uniform motion of this 
rotatory life, in the calm of these logical habits and 
this ignorance of all real elegance. In short, he 
almost comprehended the uselessness of luxury. The 
city of Paris, with its passions, storms, and pleas¬ 
ures, was already a mere memory of adolescence in 
his mind. He sincerely admired the red hands, the 
modest, timid air of a young girl, whose face, at first 
sight, had seemed to him silly, her manners without 


The Deserted Woman. 


521 


grace, Iier general effect repulsive, and her behaviour 
positively ridiculous. It was all over with him! 
Having gone to Paris from the provinces, he would 
now have fallen back from his inflammatory Parisian 
existence to the cold life of the provinces, if a few 
words had not caught his ear and caused him an 
emotion like that we feel when some original melody 
breaks in among the accompaniments of a wearisome 
opera. 

“Did you not go yesterday to see Madame de Beau- 
sfant?” said an old lady to the head of the great 
family of the region. 

“I went there this morning,” he replied. “I found 
her very sad, and so unwell that I could not persuade 
her to dine with us to-morrow.” 

“With Madame de Champignelles! ” cried the dow¬ 
ager, in a tone of surprise. 

“With my wife,” said the old nobleman, tranquilly. 
“Madame de Beauseant belongs to the family of 
Bourgogne, does she not? Through the women, it 
is true, but that name whitens all. My wife is very 
fond of the vicomtesse, and the poor lady has been so 
long alone that — ” 

As he said the last words the Marquis de Cham¬ 
pignelles looked with a calm, cold air at the persons 
who were listening to him and watching him. Im¬ 
possible to determine whether he was making a con¬ 
cession to the misfortunes or to the nobility of 
Madame de Beauseant, whether he was flattered to 
receive her, or whether he wished out of pride to 
force the gentlemen of the neighbourhood and their 
wives to visit her. 


522 


The Deserted Woman, 


All the ladies present seemed to consult one an¬ 
other with a glance; after which such profound silence 
reigned in the salon that their attitude was taken as 
a sign of disapprobation. 

“Is this Madame de Beauseant the same who had 
the affair with M. Ajuda-Pinto, that made so much 
noise?” asked Gaston of the lady next to whom he 
yms seated. 

“Precisely the same,” was the answer. “She came 
to live at Courcelles after the marriage of the Mar¬ 
quis d’Ajuda. No one here receives her. She has, 
however, too much intelligence not to feel the false¬ 
ness of her position; consequently, she has never 
sought to know any one. Monsieur de Champignelles 
and a few other men have called upon her, but she 
has received none but M. de Champignelles — on 
account, perhaps, of their relationship; they are con¬ 
nected through the Beauseants. The Marquis de 
Beauseant, the father, married a Champignelles of 
the elder branch. Though the Vicomtesse de Beau¬ 
seant is descended from the house of Bourgogne, you 
understand, of course, that we cannot admit into our 
society a woman who is separated from her husband. 
There are certain old-time ideas to which we no longer 
have the stupidity to adhere. The vicomtesse was all 
the more to blame in her behaviour because M. de 
Beauseant is a very gallant man, a man of the Court: 
he would perfectly have accepted the affair. But his 
wife is so impulsive.” 

M. de Nueil, while hearing the old lady’s voice 
was not listening to her. He was absorbed in fan¬ 
tasy — is there any other word that so expresses the 


The Deserted Woman, 


623 


attraction of an adventure at the moment when it 
catches the imagination, when the soul conceives 
vague hopes, foresees inexplicable delights, fears, 
events, while nothing as yet feeds, or fixes, the ca¬ 
prices of the mirage? The spirit wings its way, 
imagines impossible things, and gives itself in germ 
all the joys of a passion. Perhaps the germ of a 
passion contains all its joys, as a seed contains a 
beautiful flower with its fragrance and its glowing 
colours. M. de Nueil was not ignorant of the fact 
that Madame de Beauseant had taken refuge in Nor¬ 
mandy after the noise of an affair which most women 
envy and condemn, especially when the seductions of 
youth and beauty seem almost to justify the fault 
itself. There is an inconceivable prestige in every 
species of celebrity, no matter to what it may be due. 
It seems as if to vromen, as it used to be with fami¬ 
lies, the fame of a crime effaces the shame of it. Just 
as some old houses actually take pride in their be¬ 
headed ancestry, a young and pretty woman becomes 
the more attractive through the fatal renown of a 
happy love or a cruel betrayal. The more she can 
be pitied, the more she excites sympathy. We are 
pitiless only to things, sentiments, and adventures 
that are commonplace. By attracting eyes we are 
magnified. And, in truth, is it not necessary to rise 
above our fellows in order to be seen? The crowd 
feels, involuntarily, a sentiment of respect for all that 
is great, without asking its ways of being so. 

At this moment Gaston de Nueil felt himself im¬ 
pelled towards Madame de Beauseant by the secret 
influence of these reasons, or perhaps by curiosity, by 


524 


The Deserted Woman, 


the need to put an interest into his present life; in 
short, by that crowd of motives impossible to put 
into words, but which the word fatality serves to ex¬ 
press. The Vicomtesse de Beauseant had risen before 
him suddenly, accompanied by a host of graceful 
images; she was another world; near her there would 
doubtless be much to fear, hope, combat, vanquish. 
She would contrast with the persons Gaston saw 
about him in that dreary salon. In short, she was a 
woman; and he had never yet met a woman in this 
cold society where calculation took the place of senti¬ 
ment, where politeness was merely duty, and where 
the simplest ideas found something too wounding to 
allow them to be uttered or understood. Madame de 
Beauseant awakened in his soul the memory of his 
youthful dreams and his keenest passions, lulled to 
sleep for a moment. 

M. de Nueil was absent-minded for the rest of the 
evening. He sought for means to obtain an intro¬ 
duction to Madame de Beauseant, and there really 
seemed none. She was said to be extremely clever. 
But if clever people are readily attracted by original 
or refined things, they are also very keen and able to 
divine motives; near them there are often as many 
chances to be foiled as to be successful in the diffl- 
cnlt enterprise of pleasing. Besides, the vicomtesse 
must, of course, add to the proud reserve of her situ¬ 
ation the dignity that her name demanded. The 
absolute solitude in which she lived seemed to him- 
the least of the barriers raised between herself and 
the world. It was therefore almost impossible for a 
stranger, no matter how good his family might be, to 


The Deserted Woman, 


525 


get admittance to her. The next morning, however, 
M. de Nueil walked in the direction of the villa of 
Courcelles, and once or twice made a tour of the en¬ 
closure within which it stood. Impelled by the illu¬ 
sions in which, at his age, it is so easy to believe, he 
looked through the openings and over the walls, and 
stood in contemplation before the closed blinds, or 
examined attentively those that were open. He hoped 
for some romantic chance, he combined effects, with¬ 
out perceiving their impossibility, which would intro¬ 
duce him to the recluse. He took these walks for 
several mornings fruitlessly; and every day this 
woman, placed outside of societ}^, the victim cf love, 
buried in solitude, was magnified in his thoughts and 
lodged more and more in his soul. Thus it was that 
Gaston’s heart beat high with hope and joy if by 
chance, skirting the walls of Courcelles, he heard the 
heavy step of a gardener. 

He thought of writing to Madame de Beaiiseant; 
but what can be said to a woman whom you have 
never seen and who does not know you? Besides, 
Gaston distrusted himself; moreover, like all young 
men still full of illusions, he feared, more than death 
itself, the terrible disdain of silence; he shuddered in 
thinking of the chances his first amorous prose would 
have of being flung into the fire. He was a prey to 
a thousand contradictory ideas which fought within 
him. But at last, by dint of inventing chimeras, 
composing romances, and beating his brains, he suc¬ 
ceeded in finding one of those happy stratagems which 
are generally to be met with among the multitude of 
which we dream, and which reveal to the most inno- 


526 


The Deserted Woman. 


cent woman the extent of the ardour of the man’s 
search for her. Often, social caprices create as many 
real obstacles between a woman and her lover as the 
oriental poets have put into the delightful fiction of 
their tales, and their most fantastic imagery is not 
exaggerated. So, in the world of reality as in fairy¬ 
land, the woman will ever belong to him who knows 
how to reach her and deliver her from the situation in 
which she languishes. The poorest of the Calenders, 
falling in love with the daughter of a caliph, was cer¬ 
tainly not separated from her by a greater distance 
than that between Gaston and Madame de Beauseant. 
The vicomtesse, of course, lived in complete igno¬ 
rance of the circumvallations traced around her by 
M. de Nueil, whose love grew and increased to the 
height of the obstacles before him, obstacles which 
gave to his improvised mistress the attraction invari¬ 
ably possessed by distant chaims. 

One day, trusting to his inspiration, he hoped for 
all from the love that would gush from his eyes. Be¬ 
lieving speech more eloquent than the most passionate 
of letters, and speculating also on the natural curi¬ 
osity of women, he went to M. de Champignelles in 
order to employ his assistance for the success of his 
enterprise. He told him that he had an important 
and delicate commission to perform towards Madame 
de Beauseant, but not feeling sure that she would 
read letters in an unknown handwriting, or grant an 
interview to a stranger, he begged him to ask the 
vicomtesse whether, if he went to the house, she would 
deign to receive him. While asking the marquis to 
keep the secret in case of refusal, he cleverly sug- 


The Deserted Woman, 


527 


gested that be should not be silent to Madame de 
Beauseant as to the reasons which made it proper that 
she should admit him. Was he not a man of honour, 
loyal, and incapable of lending himself to anything 
unbecoming or in bad taste? The haughty gentle¬ 
man, whose little vanities were flattered, was com¬ 
pletely duped by this diplomacy of love, which lends 
to a young man the calm assurance and deep dissimu¬ 
lation of an old ambassador. He tried to penetrate 
Gaston’s motives, but the latter (much puzzled to tell 
them) opposed his Norman phrases to M. de Cham- 
pignelles’ adroit questioning, and the latter, as a true 
French knight, praised his discretion. 

The marquis hurried to Courcelles, with the eager¬ 
ness that men of a certain age put into doing a ser¬ 
vice to a pretty woman. In Madame de Beauseant’s 
peculiar position, such a message was of a nature to 
puzzle her. Therefore, although in consulting her 
memory she could not see any reason that should 
bring M. de Nueil to her, she also saw no impropriety 
in receiving him, after first making sure of his social 
position. She began, however, by refusing; then she 
discussed the propriety of the affair with M. de Cham- 
pignelles, and questioned him, trying to find out 
whether he knew the motive of the visit. After 
that she withdrew her refusal. The discussion and 
the enforced discretion of the marquis piqued her 
curiosity. 

M. de Champignelles, not wishing to appear ridicu¬ 
lous, pretended to assume, like a well-informed but 
discreet man, that the vicomtesse knew the object of 
the visit perfectly well, though she was really seeking 


528 


The Deserted Woman, 


to discover it. Madame de Beauseant, on the other 
hand, imagiued relations between Gaston and persons 
whom he did not even know; she lost herself among 
the most absurd conjectures, and vainly wondered 
wliether she had ever seen this M. de Nueil. The 
most genuine love-letter or the cleverest, would not 
have produced as much effect as this enigma with¬ 
out a key w^hich Madame de Beauseant’s mind turned 
over and over. 

When Gaston learned that he could see her he was 
both ravished at the thought of obtaining a happiness 
so desired and greatly embarrassed as to how to give 
a reason for his plot. 

“Bah! to see her^’’ be repeated, as he dressed him¬ 
self; “to see her, that is all I care for! 

He was still hoping, as he entered the door at Cour- 
celles, to come upon some expedient that should undo 
the gordian knot he had tied himself. Gaston was 
one of those young fellows who, believing in the 
omnipotence of necessity, go forward ever; and, at 
the last moment, when face to face with danger, they 
are inspired by it, and find a way to vanquish it. 
He took especial pains with his dress. He imagined, 
like all young men, that on a well or ill-placed lock of 
hair his success depended, unaware that in youth all 
is charm and attraction. Besides, choice women like 
Madame de Beauseant are only to be won by graces 
of the mind and superiority of character. A fine 
character flatters their vanity, offers the promise of a 
great passion, and appears to admit the exigencies of 
their heart. Wit amuses them, it replies to the intui¬ 
tions of their nature, and they think themselves un- 


The Deserted Woman, 


529 


derstood; and what do women want more than to be 
amused, understood, and adored? It is necessary, 
however, to have reflected deeply on the things of life 
to divine how much of the highest coquetry lies in 
carelessness of dress and reserve of mind, in a first 
interview. When we are sufficiently shrewd to be able 
politicians, we are usually too old to profit by our 
experience. While Gaston was distrusting his own 
wits by borrowing the seduction of clothes, Madame 
de Beauseant herself was instinctively adding ele¬ 
gance to her toilet, saying to herself as she arranged 
her hair: — 

“There is no need that I should look like a fright.” 

M. de Nueil had in his mind, in his person, and in 
his manners that naively original cast which gives a 
sort of savour to ideas and actions that are otherwise 
ordinary, allows all to be said, and makes everything 
acceptable. He was well-educated, observing, and 
possessed of a countenance as happy and mobile as 
his soul was impressible. Passion and tenderness 
were in his brilliant eyes, and his heart, essentially 
good, did not contradict them. The resolution he 
took on entering Courcelles was therefore in harmony 
with his frank nature and his ardent imagination. 
But in spite of the intrepidity of love he could not 
keep himself from a violent palpitation when, after 
crossing a great courtyard laid out like an English 
garden, he reached the hall, where a footman, having 
taken his name, disappeared for a moment and then 
returned to introduce him. 

“M. le Baron de Nueil.” 

Gaston entered slowly, but with pretty good grace; 

34 


530 


The Deserted Woman. 


a matter more difficult in a salon where there is but 
one woman than where there are twenty. At the cor¬ 
ner of the chimney-piece, within w’hich, despite the 
season, a large fire burned, and upon which were two 
lighted candelabra that threw a softened glow into the 
room, he saw a young woman seated in one of those 
modern easy-chairs with very high backs and low 
seats, which allow of placing the head in many varied 
poses full of grace and elegance, inclining it, bending 
it, lifting it languidly as though it were a heavy bur¬ 
den; while the feet can be shown or withdrawn be¬ 
neath the long folds of a black gown. 

The vicomtesse intended to lay the book she was 
reading on a little round table, but having at the same 
moment turned her head towards M. de Neuil, the 
book, half-placed, fell upon the ground in the space 
between the table and the chair. Without appearing 
disturbed by the incident, she lifted herself and bowed 
in answer to the young man’s salutation, but in a 
manner so imperceptible that she scarcely rose from 
her chair, in which she remained ensconced. She 
leaned forward to stir the fire; then she stooped, 
picked up a glove which she negligently put upon her 
left hand, while with her right, which was white, 
almost transparent, without rings, the fingers taper¬ 
ing and slender with rosy nails that formed a perfect 
oval, she pointed to a chair as if to tell Gaston to 
be seated. When her unknown guest had taken the 
chair, she turned her head to him with an interroo-a- 
tive and coquettish motion, the delicate charm of 
which is not to be described; it belongs to the class 
of those courteous intentions, those gracious though 


The Deserted Woman, 


531 


formal gestures, given by early education and the 
constant habit of doing all things in good taste. 
These multiplied movements succeeded each other 
rapidly, without jerk or brnsqueness; and they 
charmed Gaston by that mingling of precision and 
freedom which a pretty woman adds to the aristo¬ 
cratic manners of the highest company. 

Madame de Beauseant contrasted too vividly with 
the automatons among whom he had lived during his 
last two months of exile in the depths of Normandy 
not to personify to his mind the poesy of his dreams. 
Neither could he compare her perfections with those 
he had formerly admired. In presence of this woman 
and in this salon, furnished like those of the Fau¬ 
bourg Saint-Germain, full of the rich nothings that 
lie about on tables with flowers and books, he felt 
himself back in Paris. He trod the very carpets of 
Paris; he sa.w once more the distinguished type, the 
fragile form, of the true Parisian woman, her exqui¬ 
site grace, and her negligence of all sought-for effects, 
which do so much to mar the women of the provinces. 

Madame la Vicomtesse de Beauseant was blond, 
white as a blonde, but with brown eyes. She pre¬ 
sented her brow nobly, the brow of a fallen angel, 
proud of her fault and asking no pardon for it. Her 
hair, very abundant and braided high upon the smooth 
bands which followed the broad curves of the fore¬ 
head, added still further to the majesty of her head. 
Imagination could see in the spirals of that golden 
hair the ducal coronet of Bourgogne; and in the bril¬ 
liant eyes of this great lady the courage of her house, 
the courage of a woman strong only in repulsing dis- 


532 


The Deserted Woman, 


dain and audacity, but full of tenderness for all gentle 
feelings. The outline of her little head, admirably 
poised upon a long white throat, the features of her 
delicate face, her slightly parted lips, and her mobile 
countenance wore an expression of exquisite pru- 
denee, a tinge of affected satire, which bore some re¬ 
semblance to slyness and superciliousness. It was 
difficult not to forgive her for those two feminine sins 
in thinking of her misfortunes, of the passion which 
had almost cost her life, and was visibly attested by 
the furrows that the slightest movement traced upon 
her brow, and by the sorrowful eloquence of her 
beautiful eyes, that were often raised to heaven. Was 
it not an imposing spectacle (still further magnified 
by reflection) to see in that vast, silent salon this 
woman, parted from her kind, who for three years 
had lived in the depths of that valley, far from the 
city, alone wdth her memories of a brilliant, happy, 
ardent youth, once so filled with f8tes and homage, 
now given over to the horrors of nothingness? The 
smile of this woman proclaimed a high sense of her 
own value. Neither mother nor wife, repulsed by 
society, betrayed by the only heart that could make 
her own beat without shame, finding in no sentiment 
the needed support to her tottering spirit, she w^as 
driven to seek her strength within herself, to live 
upon her own life, and have no other hope than that 
of a deserted woman, namely: to await death, and 
hasten its slowness, despite the days of youth and 
beauty that still remained to her. To feel herself 
made for happiness, and die without receiving it, 
without giving it — a woman! What griefs! 


The Deserted Woman, 


533 


M. cle Nueil made these reflections with the ra¬ 
pidity of lightning, and felt ashamed of his own 
individual person in presence of the greatest poesy 
that can enfold a woman. Under the spell of that 
triple glow of beauty, misfortunes, and nobleness, he 
remained almost stunned, dreaming, admiring the 
woman before him, but finding nothing to say to 
her. 

Madame de Beauseant, who was doubtless not dis¬ 
pleased by this attitude, made a gentle but imperative 
gesture of the hand; then, recalling a smile to her 
pale lips, as if to obey the gracious rules of her sex, 
she said: — 

“ M. de Champignelles has informed me, monsieur, 
of the message which you have so courteously taken 
upon yourself to bring me. Is it from — ? 

Hearing that terrible speech Gaston felt the ab¬ 
surdity of his position, the bad taste, the disloyalty 
of his proceeding towards a woman so noble and so 
unhappy. He blushed. His glance, full of many 
thoughts, became agitated; then suddenly, with that 
strength which young people are able to get out of 
the consciousness of their faults, he recovered him¬ 
self. Interrupting Madame de Beauseant, not with¬ 
out making a submissive gesture, he said in a voice 
of emotion: — 

“ Madame, I do not deserve the happiness of seeing 
you; I have unworthily deceived you. The sentiment 
I have obeyed, great as it was, does not excuse the 
miserable subterfuge w’hich I used to obtain an en¬ 
trance here. But, madame, if you will have the 
goodness to allow me to tell you — ” 


534 


The Deserted Woman, 


The vicomtesse cast a haughty look of contempt 
upon him, raised her hand to the bell, and rang it, 
and when the footman came she said, looking at the 
young man with dignity: — 

“ Jacques, show this gentleman out.” 

She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and stooped to 
pick up her book. Her movements were as stiff and cold 
as those with which she had greeted him were softly 
elegant and gracious. M. de Nueil had risen, but he 
remained standing. Madame de Beauseant flung him 
another look as if to say: “Well, are you not going? ” 
That look was full of such stinging sarcasm that 
Gaston turned pale like a person about to swoon. 
Tears rose in his eyes, but he restrained them, dry¬ 
ing them in hot shame and regret as he looked at 
Madame de Beauseant with a sort of pride which 
expressed in the same glance resignation and a cer¬ 
tain consciousness of his own value. The vicomtesse 
had the right to punish him, but ought she to have 
done so? Then he went out. As he crossed the 
antechamber, the perspicacity of his mind and his 
intelligence, sharpened by passion, made him see the 
danger of his position. 

“ If I leave this house now,” he said to himself, “ I 
shall never be able to re-enter it; I shall always be 
despised by the vicomtesse. It is impossible that a 
woman — and she is indeed a woman! — should not 
divine the love she inspires; she may feel a vague 
and involuntary regret for having so brusquely dis¬ 
missed me, but she will not, she ought not to, she 
never would, revoke her decision; it is for me to 
understand her.” 


The Deserted Woman, 535 

At this reflection, Gaston stopped short on the por¬ 
tico, made an abrupt exclamation, and said: — 

“ I have forgotten something.” 

Then he returned to the salon, followed by the foot¬ 
man, who, full of respect for the baron and the sacred 
claims of property, was completely deceived by the 
naive tone in which this remark was made. Gaston 
entered the salon softly, without being announced. 
When the vicomtesse, thinking perhaps that the in¬ 
truder was the footman, raised her head she saw M. 
de Nueil standing before her. 

“ Jacques showed me out,” he said, smiling. 

That smile, full of a half-sad grace, took from his 
words what might otherwise have seemed jesting, and 
the accent with which he said them went to the soul. 

Madame de Beauseaut was disarmed. 

“ Well, then, sit down,” she said. 

Gaston seized a chair with an eager movement. 
His eyes, animated with joy, cast so vivid a light 
that the vicomtesse, unable to support that young 
glance, lowered her eyes on her book and tasted the 
pleasure, always fresh, of being to a man the prin¬ 
ciple of his happiness,—an imperishable sentiment 
in woman. Besides which, Madame de Beaus4ant had 
been understood. A woman is always thankful 
to encounter a man w^ho is able to perceive the 
caprices, so logical, of her heart; who compre¬ 
hends the apparently contradictory ways of her 
mind, the fleeting reserves of her sensations, now 
timid, now bold, — astonishing mixture of coquetry 
and artlessness. 

Madame!” cried Gaston, softly, “you know my 


536 


The Deserted Woman, 


fault, but you are ignorant of my crimes. If you 
knew with what happiness I have — ” 

“Ah! take care,” she said, lifting one of her fin¬ 
gers with a mysterious air to the level of her nose, 
which she lightly touched, while, with the other hand 
she made the gesture of ringing the bell. 

That pretty motion, that graceful threat created, no 
doubt, a sad thought, a recollection of her happy life, 
of the time when she might be all charm and fascina¬ 
tion, when happiness justified the caprices of her 
mind and gave attraction to the slightest movements 
of her body. The lines upon her forehead gathered 
between her eyebrows; her face, softly lighted by the 
candles, took a gloomy expression; she looked at M. 
de Nueil with a gravity devoid of harshness, and said 
in the tone of a woman profoundly penetrated with 
the meaning of her own words; — 

“All this is very ridiculous. Time was, monsieur, 
when I had the right to be thoughtlessly gay, when I 
could have laughed with you and received you fear¬ 
lessly; but to-day my life is changed, I am no longer 
mistress of my actions, I am forced to reflect upon 
them. To what sentiment do I owe your visit? Is 
it curiosity? If so, I am made to pay dear for a mo¬ 
ment’s gratification. Is it that you already love pas¬ 
sionately a woman universally calumniated, whom you 
have never seen? In that case, your sentiments are 
founded on a low opinion of me, on a wrong-doing to 
which chance has given celebrity.” 

She threw her book upon the table in disgust. 
“What!” she continued, with a terrible look at 
Gaston. “ Because I have once been weak does the 


The Deserted Woman, 


b2>l 


world expect me to be so always ? This is horrible, 
degrading. Do you come here to pity me? You are 
very young to sympathize with sorrows of the heart. 
Learn, monsieur, that I prefer contempt to pity; I 
will not submit to the compassion of any one.” 

A moment’s silence followed, and then she resumed, 
turning her head to him with a sad and gentle air: 

“You see, monsieur, that whatever may be the sen¬ 
timent which has brought you so heedlessly into my 
seclusion, it is wounding to me. You are too young 
to be entirely devoid of kind feeling; you must cer¬ 
tainly feel the impropriety of your action. I forgive 
it, and I speak without bitterness. You will not re¬ 
turn here, will you? I beg you where I could com¬ 
mand you. If you pay me another visit it will not 
be in your power or mine to prevent the whole town 
from believing that you are my lover, and you will 
add to all my other griefs a very great grief. That 
is not your wish, I think.” 

She ceased speaking, and looked at him with an air 
of such true dignity that it confounded him. 

“ I have done wrong, madame,” he said in a tone 
of conviction; “ but ardent feelings, want of reflec¬ 
tion, a keen desire for happiness, are virtues and 
defects both at my age. I now perceive that I ought 
not to have sought to see you, and yet my desire was 
very natural.” 

He tried to tell her, but with more sentiment than 
sense, the sufferings to which his enforced exile had 
condemned him. He pictured the state of a young 
man whose ardour burned without fuel, making him 
believe that he was worthy of being tenderly loved, 


538 


The Deserted Woman. 


who yet bad never known the delights of love inspired 
by a young and beautiful 'woman of good taste and 
delicacy. He explained his disregard of conventional 
propriety without seeking to justify it. He flattered 
Madame de Beauseant by showing her that she real¬ 
ized for him the type of mistress incessantly but 
vainly demanded by most young men. Then, speak¬ 
ing of his early morning w^alks around Courcelles, of 
the vagabond ideas that possessed him as he gazed at 
the villa, to which, at last, he had found a way, he 
excited that indefinable indulgence w^hich a ■v\'omau 
always finds'in her heart for the follies she inspires. 
He rang the tones of a passionate voice in this cold 
solitude, into which he brought the warm aspirations 
of his youth and charms of mind, developed by a 
careful education. Madame de Beauseant had been 
too long deprived of the emotions given by a delicate 
expression of true feeling not to feel the delight of 
them keenly. She could not keep herself from look¬ 
ing at the expressive face of M. de Nueil, or from 
admiring the beautiful confidence of a soul which has 
not yet been torn by cruel knowledge of the ways of 
the world, or consumed by the ceaseless calculation 
of ambition or vanity. Gaston was youth in the 
flower of its age, appearing as a man of character, 
as yet imperceptive of his highest destinies. 

Thus they both made, unknown to each other, most 
dangerous reflections for their peace of mind, mutu¬ 
ally endeavouring to conceal them. M. de Nueil 
recognized in the vicomtesse one of those rare women 
who are always victims to their own perfections and 
their inextinguishable tenderness; whose graceful 


The Deserted Woman, 


539 


beauty is their least charm when they have once ac¬ 
corded access to their soul, in which sentiments are 
infinite, and ^vhere all is good, where the instinct of 
the beautiful unites with the most varied expressions 
of love to purify its joys and make them almost sa¬ 
cred, wonderful secret of womanhood, an exquisite 
gift, not often granted by nature. 

On her side, the vicomtesse, listening to the truth¬ 
ful tones in which Gaston told her of the troubles of 
his youth, divined the sufferings imposed by timidity 
on children of larger growth when study has kept them 
safe from the corruption and contagion of men of the 
world, whose argumentative experience corrodes the 
fine qualities of youth. She found in him the dream 
of every woman — a man in whom there did not yet 
exist that egotism of family and fortune, nor that 
selfishness which ends by killing, after their first trans¬ 
ports, devotion, honour, abnegation, self-respect, — 
flowers of the soul so early vvilted, which at the start 
enrich existence with delicate though strong emotions, 
and reveal in man an honest heart. Once launched 
upon the vast spaces of sentiment, they soon w^ent far 
in theory; each sounded the depths of the other’s 
soul, seeking for the truth of its expression. This 
examination, unconscious in Gaston, was premedi¬ 
tated in Madame de Beauseant. Using her natural 
and acquired slyness she expressed, wdthout doing 
injustice to herself, opinions quite the contrary of 
those she held, in order to discover those of M. de 
Nueil. She was so witty, so gracious, so completely 
herself with a young man w^ho did not rouse her dis¬ 
trust, and w'hom she believed she should never see 


540 


The Deserted Woman. 


again, that Gaston exclaimed naively after one of her 
charming remarks: — 

“Oh, madame! how could any man desert you?” 

Madame de Beauseant was silent. Gaston red¬ 
dened; he supposed he had offended her. But in 
truth she was overcome by the first deep and true 
pleasure she had felt since the day of her sorrow. 
The cleverest roue could not have made by employ¬ 
ing art the progress that M. de Nueil owed to this 
cry from his soul. Such a judgment, wrung from the 
purity of a young man, made her innocent in her own 
eyes, condemned society, blamed the man who had 
deserted her, and justified the solitude in which she 
had come to languish. Worldly absolution, tender 
sympathies, social esteem, so much desired, so cruelly 
refused, in short, all her most secret cravings were 
accomplished by that one exclamation, embellished 
still further by gentle flatteries of the heart and the 
admiration that is always so eagerly sought by women. 
She was understood and comprehended. M. de Nueil 
gave her naturally an opportunity to rise above her 
fall. She looked at the clock. 

“Oh, madame!” cried Gaston, “do not punish 
my thoughtlessness. If you grant me but this one 
evening, deign not to shorten it.” 

She smiled at the compliment. 

“ Well,” she said, “ as we shall never see each 
other again, a few moments more or less cannot mat¬ 
ter. If I had pleased you it would have been a great 
misfortune.” 

“ A misfortune that has happened,” he answered 
sadly. 


The Deserted Woman. 


541 


“ Do not say that!” she replied, gravely. “Were 
I in any other position I would gladly receive you. 
I shall speak to you without evasion, and you will 
comprehend why I cannot, and why I ought not to 
receive you. I think you have too great a soul not 
to feel that if I were suspected of a second weakness 
I should become in the eyes of every one a contemp¬ 
tible and vulgar woman; I should be like other women. 
A pure and spotless life will, on the contrary, put my 
character into relief. I am too proud not to attempt 
to live in society as a being apart, victim to laws in 
my marriage, victim to man in my love. If I did 
not remain faithful to my position, I should deserve 
the blame that crushes me, and I should lose my own 
esteem. I have not had the lofty social virtue to be¬ 
long to a man I did not love. I have broken, in spite 
of the laws, the bonds of marriage; but to me mar¬ 
riage was equivalent to death. I wished to live. If 
1 had been a mother, perhaps I should have found 
strength to endure the torture of a marriage forced 
upon me by conventions. At eighteen we know noth¬ 
ing, poor young girls, of what we are made to do. I 
have violated the laws of the world, and the world has 
punished me; we were just, the one to the other. I 
sought happiness. Is it not a law of our nature to be 
happy ? I was young, I was beautiful — I thought I 
met a being who was as loving as he was impassioned. 
I was loved deeply for a moment! ” 

She paused. 

“ I think,” she resumed, “ that a man ought never 
to abandon a woman in the situation in which I was. 
I was deserted, I had ceased to please; perhaps I was 


542 


The Deserted 'Woman, 


too loving, too devoted, or too exacting; I know not. 
Sorrow has at last trained me. After being an accuser 
for a long, long time, I am now resigned to be the 
only guilty one. I have therefore absolved at my 
own expense him of whom I believed I had reason to 
complain. I was not clever enough to keep him; fate 
has harshly punished me for my incompetence. I 
know only how to love; how can one think of one’s self 
when one loves? I was therefore a slave, when I 
ought to have made myself a tyrant. Those who 
know me may condemn me, but they esteem me. JMy 
sufferings have taught me never again to put myself 
in the way of desertion. 1 do not understand how it 
is I still live after enduring the eight days of anguish 
that followed that crisis, the most dreadful that can 
happen in the life of a woman. One must have lived 
three years in absolute solitude to have gathered suffi¬ 
cient strength to speak as I do now of my sorrows. 
A death-struggle usually ends in death; mine was 
that struggle without the grave to end it. Oh! I 
have suffered, indeed!” 

She raised her beautiful eyes to the ceiling, confid¬ 
ing to it, no doubt, all that she could not tell to a 
stranger. A ceiling is certainly the gentlest, most 
submissive, most complying confidant that women can 
find on occasions when they dare not look at their 
interlocutor. The ceiling of a boudoir is an institu¬ 
tion. Is it not a confessional, minus the priest? At 
this moment Madame de Beauseant was eloquent and 
beautiful; I would say coquettish if the word were 
not too strong. In rendering justice to herself, in 
putting between herself and love the highest barriers, 


The Deserted Woman. 


543 


she spurred all the feelings of the man; and the more 
she raised her nature, the better she offered it to his 
sight. At the end she lowered her eyes to Gaston, 
after taking from them the too affecting expression 
given to them by the memory of her sufferings. 

“ You will admit that I ought to remain solitary 
and cold,’’ she said calmly. 

M. de Nueil felt a violent desire to fall at the feet 
of this 'woman, sublime at this moment with reason 
and unreason; but he feared her ridicule; he repressed 
his enthusiasm and his thoughts; he felt both the fear 
of not being able to express them well, and a terror 
of some terrible rebuff or sarcasm, apprehension of 
which so often freezes the souls of ardent beings. 
The reaction of feelings thus repressed at the moment 
when they were about to gush from his heart gave 
him that bitter pain known to shy and ambitious per¬ 
sons when forced to swallow their own desires. He 
could not, however, help breaking the silence by say¬ 
ing in a trembling voice: — 

“ Permit me, madame, to give way to one of the 
greatest emotions of my life by avowing to you what 
you have made me feel. You enlarge my heart! I 
feel within me a desire to spend my life in making 
you forget your griefs, in loving you for all those 
who have hated or wounded jmu. But this is a sud¬ 
den effusion of the heart, which to-day nothing 311 s- 
tiiies, and which I ought — ” 

“Enough, monsieur,” said Madame de Beauseant; 
“ we are each of us going too far. I wished to re¬ 
move all harshness from the refusal I am obliged to 
give; I wished to explain its mournful reasons, not 


544 


The Deserted Woman, 


to attract your homage. Coquetry is becoming to 
none but happy women. Believe me, it is better we 
should remain strangers to each otner. Later, you 
will know that it is better not to form ties that must 
eventually be broken.” 

She sighed slightly, and her brow wrinkled, only 
to renew its purity a moment later. 

“ What suffering for a woman,” she resumed, “not 
to be able to follow the man she loves through all the 
phases of his life! And that deep grief, must it not 
echo horribly in the heart of that man, if indeed he 
loves her well ? A double grief, is it not? ” 

A moment’s silence, and then she rose as if to 
make her guest rise, saying with a smile: — 

“ You did not expect, in coming to Courcelles, to 
hear a sermon, did you ? ” 

Gaston felt himself at this moment farther from 
this extraordinary woman than at the moment he first 
approached her. Attributing the charm of this de¬ 
lightful hour to the coquetry of the mistress of the 
salon, desirous of displaying her mind, he bowed 
coldly to the vicomtesse and left the house in de¬ 
spair. As he went along he tried to disentangle the 
true character of this creature, supple, yet hard as 
a steel spring; but he had seen her take so many 
aspects, so many shades, that he found it impossible 
to form any real judgment upon her. Besides, the 
intonations of her voice rang in his ears, and the 
recollection gave such charm to her gestures, to 
the motions of her head, to the play of her eyes that 
the more his thoughts examined her, the more he was 
in love. To him, her beauty shone the brighter in 


The Deserted Woman, 


545 


the shadows; the impressions he received of it woke 
again, awakened by one another, seducing him anew 
by revealing graces of womanhood and intellect not 
perceived at first. He fell into one of those vagabond 
meditations during which the most lucid thoughts 
struggle together and cast the soul into a species of 
short madness. One must be young to reveal and to 
comprehend the secret of dithyrambics of this kind, 
in which the heart, assailed by the wisest and by the 
craziest ideas, yields to whichever strikes it last, a 
thought of hope or of despair, at the will of some 
unknown power. At twenty-three years of age a man 
is almost always ruled by a sentiment of modesty; 
the shyness, the timidity of a young girl agitate him; 
he is afraid of expressing ill his love, he sees noth¬ 
ing but difficulties, and stands in awe of tl^em; he 
trembles in fear that he may not please; he would be 
bold if he did not love so much; the more he feels the 
value of happiness, the less he believes that his mis¬ 
tress will easily grant it to him. Sometimes he yields 
himself up too entirely to his pleasure, and fears to be 
unable to give any; or if, unfortunately, his idol is 
imposing he adores her in secret and from afar; if his 
love is not divined, it expires. Often this precocious 
passion, * dead in the young heart, remains there, 
brilliant with illusions. What man has not several 
of these virgin memories, which, later, awake, ever 
gracious, bringing the image of a perfect joy ? memo¬ 
ries like children, lost in the flower of their age, whose 
parents have known nothing but their smiles? 

M. de Nueil returned, therefore, from Courcelles, a 
prey to feelings big with contradictory resolutions. 

35 


546 


The Deserted Woman, 


Madame de Beauseant had become to him already the 
condition of his existence; he preferred to die than to 
live without her. Still juvenile enough to feel those 
cruel fascinations which a perfect woman exercises 
over a fresh and passionate soul, he must have passed 
one of those storm-tossed nights during which young 
men fly mentally from happiness to suicide, from sui¬ 
cide to happiness, exhausting a whole lifetime of joy 
and falling asleep powerless. Fatal nights, from 
which the greatest danger is to waken a philosopher. 
Too thoroughly in love to sleep, M. de Nueil rose and 
began to write letters, none of which satisfying him, 
he burned them all. 

The next day he went to make a turn round the 
little inclosure of Courcelles, but only towards night¬ 
fall, fearing lest the vicomtesse should see him. The 
feeling he was then obeying belongs to a characteristic 
of the soul so mysterious that one must still be a 
young man in a like position to comprehend its mute 
delights and whimsicalities, — all of which make those 
persons fortunate enough to see only the practical side 
of life shrug their shoulders. After painful hesitation 
Gaston wrote to Madame de Beauseant the following 
letter, which may pass for a model of the phraseology 
special to lovers, and can be compared to the draw¬ 
ings made in secret by children to surprise their 
parents, — works of art detestable to all except the 
parents who receive them. 

“Madame, —You exercise so great an influence 
over my heart, my soul, my person, that to-day my fate 
hangs wholly upon you. Do not fling my letter into 


The Deserted Woman, 


547 


the fire. Be sufficiently benevolent to read it. Per¬ 
haps you will pardon my first words when you per¬ 
ceive that they are not a selfish or vulgar declaration, 
but the expression of a natural fact. 

“ Perhaps you will be touched by the modesty of my 
prayers, by the resignation that a sense of my inferi¬ 
ority inspires, by the influence of your decision on 
my life. At my age, madame, I know only how to 
love; I am utterly ignorant of what will please a 
woman and win her; but I feel for her in my heart 
intoxicating adorations. I am irresistibly attracted 
to you by the immense pleasure you make me feel; I 
think of you with all the egoism which draws us in¬ 
stinctively where for us is vital warmth. I do not 
think myself worthy of you. No, it seems to me im¬ 
possible that I, young, ignorant, timid, should bring 
to you one-millionth part of the happiness that I 
breathe in as I listen to you, as I see you. You are 
to me the only woman existing in the world. Unable 
to conceive of life without you I have resolved to 
leave France and risk my existence until I lose it in 
some impossible enterprise, in the Indies, in Africa, 
I know not where. Must I not combat a boundless 
love with something that is allied to infinity? 

“ But if you would have me hope, not to be wholly 
yours, but to obtain your friendship, I shall remain. 
Permit me to spend near you — rarely if you so insist 
— a few hours like those I have just obtained. That 
slender happiness, the keen enjoyments of which can 
be denied me at my first too ardent words, will suffice 
to make me endure the pulsations of my blood. Do 
I presume too far upon your generosity when I en- 


548 


The Deserted Woman, 


treat you to permit an intercourse in which all the 
profit is to me alone? You can surely show to the 
world to which you sacrifice so much that I am noth¬ 
ing to you. You, so brilliant and so proud, what can 
you fear? 

“ I would that I could open my heart to you, in 
order to convince you that my humble petition covers 
no secret thought. I should not have told you that my 
love is boundless in asking you to grant me friend¬ 
ship did I have any hope that you would share the 
sentiment so deeply sunken in my soul. No, I shall 
ever be, near you, that which you desire me to be, 
provided I may be there. If you refuse me, and you 
may, I shall not murmur, I shall depart. If, later, 
any other woman than you should enter my life, you 
will have acted rightly; but if I die, faithful to my 
love, you will perhaps feel some regret. The hope of 
thus causing you regret will soothe my anguish — it 
will be the only vengeance of my rejected heart.” 

It is necessary not to be ignorant of any of the 
extravagant sorrows of youth, and also to have 
climbed upon all the white and double-winged chi¬ 
meras which offer their feminine crupper to burning 
imaginations, in order to understand the torture to 
which Gaston de Nueil was a prey when he knew that 
his first ultimatum was in the hands of the vicomtesse. 
He imagined her cold, scornful, jesting at his love, 
like those who no longer believe in the tender pas¬ 
sion. He would gladly have recalled his letter, — 
he thought it absurd; there came into his mind a 
thousand and one ideas that were infinitely better. 


The Deserted Woman, 


549 


all of them more touching than his stiff sentences, 
those cursed, far-fetched, sophistical, pretentious sen¬ 
tences, but, happily, very ill-punctuated and written 
askew. He tried not to think, not to feel; but he did 
think, he felt, he suffered. If he had been thirty 
years old he would have made himself drunk; but the 
still artless young fellow knew nothing of the re¬ 
sources of opium or the other expedients of extreme 
civilization. He had not at his elbow one of those 
good Parisian friends who know so well how to say to 
you: PcETE, NON DOLET ! as they hold out a bottle of 
champagne, or carry you off to an orgy to ameliorate 
the pangs of uncertainty. Excellent friends, always 
ruined when you are rich, always at a watering-place 
when you are in search of them, always having just 
lost their last louis at cards when you ask them to 
lend you one, but always owning a bad horse to sell 
to you; yet, after all, the best fellows on earth, and 
ever ready to jump in with you and race down the 
steep incline on which time, and soul, and life itself 
are wasted. 

At last M. de Nueil received, from the hands of 
Jacques, a letter sealed with perfumed wax bearing 
the arms of Bourgogne, and written on satin paper, 
unmistakable signs of a pretty woman. He rushed 
away instantly to lock himself in and read and 
re-read her letter. 

“ You punish me very severely, monsieur, both for 
the kindness with which I saved you from the annoy¬ 
ance of a dismissal, and for the seduction which gifts 
of mind invariably exercise over me. I had confi- 


550 


The Deserted Woman, 


dence in the nobleness of youth, and you have de¬ 
ceived me. Nevertheless, I spoke to you, if not with 
open heart, which would have been perfectly ridicu¬ 
lous, at least with frankness; I told you of my situa¬ 
tion in order to make your young soul comprehend 
my coldness. The more you interested me, the more 
keen is the pain you have now caused me. I am 
naturally tender and kind, but circumstances render 
me harsh. Another woman would have burned your 
letter without reading it; I have read it, and I answer 
it. My reasons will prove to you that while I am not 
insensible to the expression of feelings to which, 
however involuntarily, I have given birth, I am far 
from sharing them, and my conduct will show you 
better still the sincerity of my soul. Besides, I wish, 
for your good, to employ the species of authority 
which you give me over your life, and exercise it, 
once only, in causing the veil that now covers your 
eyes to drop. 

“ I shall soon be thirty years of age, and you are 
barely twenty-two. You are ignorant yourself of 
what your thoughts may be when you reach my years. 
The vows you take to-day may seem to you by that 
time extremely heavy. To-day, I am willing to be¬ 
lieve, you would give me your whole life without 
regret, you would even die for an ephemeral pleas¬ 
ure; but at thirty, experience will have taken from 
you the strength to make me daily sacrifices; and as 
for me, I should be deeply humiliated to accept them. 
Some day everything about you. Nature herself, will 
command you to leave me; and, as I have told you 
already, I prefer death to desertion. You see how 


The Deserted Woman, 


551 


sorrow has taught me to calculate. I reason, I have 
no passion. You force me to tell you that I do not 
love you, that I ought not, cannot, and will not love 
you. I have passed that moment in life when women 
yield to unreflecting impulse; I could not be the mis¬ 
tress of whom you are in search. 

“My consolations, monsieur, come from God, not 
from man. Besides, I read too clearly into hearts by 
the sad light of a love betrayed, to consent to the 
friendship that you ask and that you offer. You are 
the dupe of your heart, and you hope much more from 
my weakness than from your strength. All that is an 
effect of instinct. I pardon you this childish plot, in 
which you are not yet an accomplice. I order you, 
in the name of this passing love, in the name of your 
life, in the name of my tranquillity, to remain in your 
own country, and not to abandon an honourable and 
noble life in its service for an illusion which must, 
sooner or later, be extinguished. 

“Later, when you have, in accomplishing your true 
destiny, developed all the sentiments that await a 
man, you will appreciate my answer, which, at the 
present moment, you will doubtless accuse of harsh¬ 
ness. You will then meet, with pleasure, an old 
woman whose friendship will be sweet and precious 
to you; it will not have been subjected to the vicissi¬ 
tudes of passion or to the disenchantments of life; 
noble ideas, religious ideas will have kept it pure and 
saintly. 

“Adieu, monsieur, obey me; believe that your suc¬ 
cess in life will cast some pleasure into my solitude, 
and think of me only as we think of the absent.” 


552 


The Deserted Woman. 


After having read this letter Gaston de Nueil wrote 
as follows: — 

“ Madame, if I ceased to love you, and accepted 
the chances which you propose to me of becoming an 
ordinary man, I should deserve my fate — admit it! 
No, I shall not obey you, and I swear to you a fidelity 
which can be unbound by death only. Oh! take my 
life! — unless you fear to put remorse in yours.” 

When the servant whom M. de Nueil had sent to 
Courcelles returned, his master said to him: — 

“ To whom did you give my note?” 

“ To Madame la vicomtesse herself as she was get¬ 
ting into the carriage — ” 

“ To come into town? ” 

“ I think not, monsieur; the carriage of Madame la 
vicomtesse had post-horses to it.” 

“Ah! then she is going on a journey,” said the 
baron. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied the valet. 

Instantly Gaston'made his preparations to follow 
Madame de Beauseant, and she led him as far as 
Geneva without knowing that he accompanied her. 
Among the thousand reflections that crowded upon 
him during this journey the one that occupied him 
more especially was this: “ Why did she go away? ” 
That question was the text of innumerable supposi¬ 
tions, among which he naturally chose the most flat¬ 
tering, namely: “ If she desires to love me, there is 
no doubt that a woman of her intelligence would pre¬ 
fer Switzerland, where no one knows us, to France, 
where she w^ould meet with censors.” 


The Deserted Woman, 


553 


Certain passionate men would not like a woman 
clever enough to choose her ground; they belong to 
the class of the refined. However, there is nothing 
to show that Gaston’s supposition was correct. 

The vicomtesse hired a little house on the shores of 
the lake. When she was fully installed, Gaston pre¬ 
sented himself one fine evening as the light was fad¬ 
ing. Jacques, an essentially aristocratic footman, 
showed no surprise on seeing M. de Nueil, and an¬ 
nounced him as a servant accustomed to understand 
things. Hearing the name, and seeing the young man 
before her, Madame de Beauseant let fall the book 
she was reading; her surprise gave Gaston the time 
to reach her and to say in a voice that seemed to her 
delightful. — 

“With what pleasure I took the horses that had 
just taken you!” 

To be so well obeyed in her secret desires! Where 
is the woman who would not have yielded to such 
happiness? An Italian, one of those fascinating 
creatures whose soul is at the antipodes to that of 
a Parisian woman, and whom, on this side of the 
Alps, we think profoundly immoral, said one day in 
reading a French novel: “ I don’t see why those poor 
lovers spent so much time in settling what ought to 
be the alfair of an afternoon.” Why should a nar¬ 
rator not follow the example of the kind Italian, and 
refrain from delaying his readers or his topic. There 
would certainly be a few scenes of charming coquetry 
to depict, sweet delays which Madame de Beauseant 
preferred to give to Gaston’s happiness, in order to 
fall with grace like the virgins of antiquity; perhaps, 


554 


The Deserted Woman. 


too, she wished to enjoy the pleasures of inspiring a 
first love and of leading it on to its highest expres¬ 
sion of strength and power. M. de Nueil was still of 
an age to be the dupe of these caprices, these ma¬ 
noeuvres which womeu so delight in, and which they 
prolong, either to stipulate for conditions or to in¬ 
crease their power, the diminution of which they in¬ 
stinctively divine. But these little protocols of the 
boudoir, less numerous than those of the Conference 
of London, hold too small a place in the history of a 
real passion to be mentioned here. 

Madame de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived for 
three years in the villa on the lake of Geneva. They 
lived alone, seeing no one, and causing no talk about 
them; they sailed their boat, and were as happy as 
we ought all to be. The little house was simple, with 
green blinds, and wide balconies sheltered by awnings, 
a true lover’s-nest, a house of white sofas, silent car¬ 
pets, fresh coverings, where all things shone wdth joy. 
At each and every window the lake took on a differ¬ 
ent aspect; in the distance, the mountains with their 
vapory, many-tinted, fugitive fantasies; above them, 
a beauteous sky; and, before them, that long expanse 
of capricious, changeful water! All things seemed to 
dream for those lovers, and all things smiled upon 
them. 

Important interests recalled M. de Nueil to France: 
his father and brother were dead; it was necessary to 
leave Geneva. The pair bought the little house; they 
would have liked to cast down the mountains and 
empty the lake by a subterranean current, in order to 
leave nothing behind them. Madame de Beauseant 


The Deserted Woman, 


555 


followed M. de Nueil. She converted her fortune and 
bought, near to Manerville, a considerable property 
which adjoined the estates of M. de Nueil, and there 
they lived together. Gaston very graciously gave up 
to his mother the chateau and the income of the 
domains of Manerville in return for the liberty she 
gave him to live a bachelor. Madame de Beauseant’s 
estate was close to a little town in one of the loveliest 
positions of the valley of the Auge. There, the two 
lovers put between themselves and the world barriers 
that neither social ideas nor individuals were able to 
cross, and there they found again the happy days of 
Switzerland. For nine whole years they enjoyed a 
happiness it is useless to describe; the end of this 
history will doubtless make all souls that are able to 
comprehend it in the infinity of its expressions divine 
its poesy and its aspiration. 

Meanwhile, M. le Marquis de Beauseant (his father 
and elder brother being dead), the husband of Madame 
de Beauseant, was in the enjoyment of perfect health. 
Nothing assists us so much to live as the certainty of 
making others happy by our death. Monsieur de 
Beauseant was one of those ironical, stubborn men 
who, like life-annuitants, find an added pleasure to 
that of other men in getting up well and hearty every 
morning. Worthy man, however; a little methodical, 
ceremonious, and sufficiently of a calculator to be able 
to declare his love to a woman as tranquilly as a foot¬ 
man announces that “Madame is served.” 

This little biographical notice of M. de Beauseant 
is intended to show how impossible it was that 
Madame de Beauseant should marry M. de Nueil. 


556 


The Deserted Woman, 


Thus, after nine years of happiness, the sweetest 
lease a woman ever signed, M. de Nueil and Madame 
de Beauseant were still in a position as natural and as 
false as that in which we saw them at the beginning of 
this affair; a fatal crisis, nevertheless, of which it is 
impossible to give an idea, though the lines can be laid 
down with mathematical correctness. 

Madame la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston’s mother, 
had never been willing to meet Madame de Beauseant. 
She was a person of stiff virtue, who had very legally 
made the happiness of M. de Nueil, the father. 
Madame de Beauseant knew perfectly well that the 
honourable dowager was her enemy, and would surely 
attempt to win Gaston away from his anti-religious 
and immoral life. She would gladly have sold her 
property and returned to Geneva. But to do so would 
be showing distrust of M. de Nueil, and of that she 
was incapable. Besides, he had taken a great liking 
for the estate of Valleroy, where he was making great 
plantations and altering the lay of the land. It would 
be tearing him away from a species of mechanical 
happiness which women desire for their husbands, 
and even for their lovers. 

Recently a young lady had arrived in the neighbour¬ 
hood, a Mademoiselle de la Rodiere, about twent^^-tw^o 
years of age, with a fortune of forty thousand francs 
a year. Gaston met this heiress at Manerville every 
time that his duty to his mother took him to the 
house. 

Having thus placed these personages like the 
ciphers of a proposition in arithmetic before the 
reader, the following letter, written and given one 


The Deserted Woman. 


557 


morning to Gaston, will explain the dreadful problem 
which for over a month Madame de Beauseant had 
been striving to solve: — 

“ My Beloved, —to write to you while living heart 
to heart, when nothing parts us, when our caresses 
serve us often in place of language — is not this a 
contradiction? No, love. There are certain things a 
W’omau cannot say face to face with her lover; the 
mere thought of them takes away her voice, drives 
the blood to her heart; she is left without strength, 
without mind. To be in this state near to you makes 
me suffer, and I am often in it. I feel that my heart 
ought to be all truth to you; that no thought within 
it should be disguised to you, not even the most fugi¬ 
tive ; and I love this giving of all, which so becomes 
me, too well to remain any longer restrained and silent. 
Therefore I am going now to tell you my distress — 
yes, it is a distress, an anguish. Listen to me! and 
do not say that little ‘ Ta ta ta ’ with which you silence 
my sauciness, and which I love, because all pleases 
me from you. 

“ Dear heaven-sent husband, let me tell you that you 
have effaced all memory of the sorrows beneath the 
weight of which I was so nearly succumbing years 
ago. I have known love through you alone. It 
needed the candour of your beautiful youth, the purity 
of your great soul, to satisfy the exactions of an ex¬ 
acting woman. Friend, I have often throbbed with 
joy in thinking that during all these nine years — so 
rapid yet so long — my jealousy has never once been 
roused. I have had all the flowers of your soul, all 


558 


The Deserted Woman, 


your thoughts. There has never been the slightest 
cloud upon our sky; we have not known what a sacri¬ 
fice was; w^e have each obeyed the inspiration of our 
hearts. I have enjoyed a boundless happiness for a 
woman. The tears upon this page will tell you of 
my gratitude. I would like to write of it on my 
knees — 

“ Well, this felicity has brought me an anguish 
greater than was that of desertion. Dear, the heart 
of a woman has folds within folds; I knew not myself 
until to-day the depth of mine, just as I knew not the 
depth of love. The greatest sorrows that can assail 
us are light to bear in comparison with the one 
thought of harm to him we love. And if w^e cause it, 
that harm, is it not a thing to die of? 

“ There is the thought that oppresses me. But it 
drags after it another that is yet more heavy; one 
w^hich degrades the glory of love, kills it, makes it a 
humiliation that tarnishes our life forever. You are 
thirty years old, and I am forty. What terrors does 
not this difference of age inspire in a loving w'oman? 
You may, first involuntarily, then consciously, have 
felt the sacrifices you have made to me in renouncing 
all the world for my sake. You may have thought, 
perhaps, of your social destiny, of this marriage 
which will so largely increase your fortune, of children 
to whom you can transmit it, of your reappearance in 
the world to occupy your place with honour. But 
those thoughts you may have repressed, happy in sac¬ 
rificing to me, without my knowledge, an heiress, a 
fortune, and a noble future. In your manly gener¬ 
osity you will choose to remain faithful to the oaths 


The Deserted Woman. 


659 


which bind us in the sight of God only. My past 
W'ill reappear to you, and I shall be protected by the 
very grief from which you drew me — Shall I owe 
your love to pity? that thought is more horrible to me 
than even that of making your life a failure. Those 
who stab their mistresses are more merciful when they 
kill them happy and innocent in the glow of their 
illusions —■ Yes, death is preferable to these two 
thoughts which for some time past have saddened my 
heart secretly. Yesterday, when you said to me so 
tenderly: ‘What is the matter?’ your voice made 
me shudder. I thought that, as usual, you read my 
soul, and I expected your confidences, believing that 
my presentiments were just, and divining the calcula- 
tions of your mind. 

“ Then it was that I remembered certain attentions 
which are habitual to you, but in which I believed 
that I could trace the sort of effort by which men betray 
that their loyalty is hard to maintain. At that 
moment I paid dear for my past happiness; I felt 
that the treasures of love were always sold to us. 
And, in fact, has not fate parted us? You have surely 
said to yourself: ‘ Sooner or later I must leave my 
poor Claire; why not part from her in time?’ That 
sentence has been written in your eyes. At times I 
have left you to go and weep elsewhere. These are 
the first tears that grief has made me shed these ten 
years, and I have been too proud to show them to 
you. 

“ But remember, I do not blame you. You are right; 
I ought not to have the selfishness to bind your bril¬ 
liant and long life to mine which is so nearly worn 



560 


The Deserted Wo7nan. 


out. But, if I am wrong, if I have mistaken one of 
your love-melancholies for a thought of separation? 
— Ah! my angel, do not leave me in uncertainty; 
punish your jealous wife, but give back to her the 
consciousness of your love and hers: all of woman¬ 
hood is in that prayer; for in that sentiment alone all 
is sanctified. 

“ Since your mother’s arrival and since you meet 
Mademoiselle de la Rodiere so frequently at her house, 
I am a prey to doubts which dishonour us. Make me 
suffer, but do not deceive me; I wish to know all, —■ 
what your mother says and what you think. If you 
have hesitated between anything and me I will give 
you your liberty — I will hide my fate from you; I 
will never weep before you; only I cannot see you 
more— Oh! I stop, my heart is breaking. 


“ I have sat here gloomy and stupid for several 
moments. Friend, I can have no pride with you, 
you are so good, so frank! You could not wound me, 
you would not deceive me; you will tell me the truth, 
however cruel it may be. Shall I help your avowal? 
Well, then, heart of mine, I shall be comforted by one 
thought: Shall I not have possessed the young being, 
all grace, all beauty, all delicacy, the Gaston whom 
no other woman can ever know, but whom I, I alone, 
have delightfully enjoyed?— No, you will never 
love again as you have loved me; no, I shall have no 
rival. My memories will be without bitterness in 
thinking of our love, which will be all my thought. 
It is beyond your power to enchant another woman 
with the young charms of a young heart, by those dear 



The Deserted Woman, 


561 


coquetries of the soul, those graces of the body, that 
quick understanding of allurement —- in short, by the 
whole adorable cortege that surrounds adolescent love. 
Ah! you are a man now; you will obey your destiny 
by calculating everything. You will have cares, 
anxieties, ambitions, troubles which will deprive her 
of the constant and unalterable smile which was ever 
on your lips for me. Your voice, to me so tender, 
will oftentimes be harassed now. Your eyes, that 
lighted with celestial gleams on seeing me, will be 
dim to her. Then, as it is impossible to love you as 
I love you, this woman will never please you as I 
pleased you. She will never take that perpetual care 
that I have taken of myself and that continual study 
of your happiness, the intelligence of which has never 
failed me. Yes, the man, the heart, the soul that I 
have known will exist no more; but I shall bury them 
in my memory to enjoy them still; I shall live happy 
in that beautiful past life, unknowing of all that is 
not ns. 

“ My dear treasure, if, nevertheless, you have not 
conceived the least desire for liberty, if my love indeed 
is not a weight upon you, if my fears are all chimer¬ 
ical, if I am still for you your Eve, the only woman 
that there is in this world, come, come to me, the 
moment you have read this letter. Ah! I will love 
you in that one instant more than I have loved you in 
these nine years. After having endured the useless 
torture of these doubts, every day that is added to our 
love, yes, every single day, will be a lifetime of hap¬ 
piness. Therefore speak! be frank; do not deceive 
me, for that would be a crime. Tell me, will you 
36 


562 


The Deserted Woman. 


have your liberty? Have you reflected on the life of 
your manhood? Have you a regret? — I, to cause 
you a regret! oh, I should die of it! I have love 
enough to prefer your happiness to mine, your life to 
mine. Cast aside, if you can, the memory of our nine 
years of bliss that you may not be influenced in your 
decision; but speak! I am submissive to you as I 
am to God, the one consoler that remains if you 
desert me.” 

When Madame de Beauseant knew that her letter 
was in M. de Nueil’s hands she fell into such deep 
dejection, into a meditation that was almost torpid 
from the crowding of her overabundant thoughts, that 
she seemed to be half asleep. Certainly she suffered 
an anguish the intensity of which has not always 
been proportioned to a woman’s strength, and yet it is 
only women who endure it. 

While she thus awaited her fate, M. de Nueil was, 
on reading her letter, much embarrassed^ the term 
employed by all young men in a crisis of this kind. 
He had already half yielded to the instigations of his 
mother and the attractions of Mademoiselle de la 
Rodiere, a rather insignificant young girl, straight as 
a poplar, white and pink, semi-mute, according to the 
programme prescribed for all marriageable girls; but 
her forty thousand francs a year from landed property 
were a sufficient charm. Madame de Nueil, with the 
true affection of a mother, desired to inveigle her son 
into virtue. She pointed out to him the flattery of 
being preferred by Mademoiselle de la Rodiere when 
so many distinguished matches were offered to her; 


The Deserted Woman. 


563 


it was surely time to think of his future; such a 
splendid opportunity might never come again; they 
would have eighty thousand francs a year between 
them eventually; fortune consoled for so much! If 
Madame de Beauseant loved him for himself she ought 
to be the first to advise him to marry; — in short, this 
good mother neglected none of the means of action 
by which a woman influences a man’s mind. She 
had already brought her son to hesitate. Madame de 
Beauseant’s letter came at a moment when his love 
was still debating against the seductions of a life ar¬ 
ranged with propriety and in conformity with the 
ideas of the world; but the letter decided the struggle. 
He resolved to part from Madame de Beauseant and 
marry. 

“One must be a man in life,” he said to himself. 

Then he reflected on the sufferings this resolution 
would cause his mistress. His vanity as a man as 
well as his conscience as a lover magnified them still 
further; a sincere pity took possession of him. He 
felt, all of a sudden, the immensity of the misfortune, 
and he thought it necessary, charitable, to allay that 
mortal wound. He hoped by careful management to 
be able to bring Madame de Beauseant to a calmer 
state of mind and induce her to advise this cruel mar¬ 
riage, by accustoming her slowly to the idea of a ne¬ 
cessary separation; keeping Mademoiselle de la 
Rodiere always between them as a mere phantom, 
sacrificing her at first, that Madame de Beauseant 
might impose her upon him later. In order to suc¬ 
ceed in this compassionate undertaking, he went so 
far as to count upon the nobility, the pride, the finest 


564 


The Deserted Woman, 


qualities in the soul of his mistress. He therefore 
answered her letter in a way that he supposed would 
lull her suspicions. 

Answer her! To a woman who united to the intui¬ 
tions of true love the most delicate perceptions of a 
woman’s mind an answer was condemnation to death. 
When Jacques entered the room and advanced towards 
Madame de Beauseant to give her a note, folded tri¬ 
angularly, the poor woman trembled like a captured 
swallow. A mysterious chill fell from her head to her 
feet, wrapping her, as it were, in a shroud of ice. If 
he did not rush to her, w^eeping, pale, a lover, all was 
over. And yet, there is so much hope in the hearts 
of loving women! so many stabs are needed to kill 
them; they love and they bleed to the last. 

“Does madame need anything?” asked Jacques, 
in a gentle voice, as he withdrew. 

“No,” she said. “Poor man,” she thought, wiping 
away a tear; “even he divines it, a valet! ” 

She read: “My Beloved, you are creating for your¬ 
self chimeras — ” A thick veil fell upon her eyes; 
the secret voice of her heart cried to her; “He lies! ” 
Then her glance seized the meaning of the whole first 
page with that species of lucid avidity given by pas¬ 
sion, and read at the bottom of it these wwds: 
“Nothing has been settled.” Turning the page with 
convulsive haste she saw distinctly the intention 
which had dictated the involved evasive phrases of 
the letter, in which there was no longer the impetuous 
gush of love; she crumpled it, tore it, bit it, and cast 
it into the fire, crying out: — 

“Oh! infamy! I was his when he did not love me! ” 


The Deserted Woman, 


665 


Then, half dead, she fell upon her sofa. 

M. de Nueil went out to walk after he had written 
and sent his letter. On his return, he found Jacques 
at the door, who gave him a note and said: — 

“Madame la marquise is not at the chateau.’' 

Much astonished, M. de Nueil opened the envelope 
and read: — 

“Madame, if I ceased to love you and accepted the 
chances which you propose to me of becoming an 
ordinary man, I should deserve my fate—admit itJ 
No, I shall not obey you, and I swear to you a fidelity 
which can be unbound by death only. Oh! take my 
life! — unless you fear to put remorse in yours.” 

It was the note he had written to Madame de Beau- 
seant nine years earlier, as she started for Geneva. 
Beneath it Claire de Bourgogne had written; “Mon¬ 
sieur, you are free.” 

M. de Nueil removed to his mother’s house at 
Manerville. Three weeks later he married Mademoi¬ 
selle Stephanie de la Rodiere. 

If this history, very commonplace in its truthful¬ 
ness, came to an end here it would seem a mere hoax 
to relate it. Nearly every man has something as 
interesting, or more so, to tell to himself. But the 
noise made by its final conclusion, unhappily too true, 
and all that this tale brings back in memory to the 
hearts of those who have known the celestial delights 
of an infinite passion which they have themselves 
destroyed or lost by some cruel fatality, may justify 
its recital here and shelter it from critics. 


566 


The Deserted Woman, 


Madame de Beauseant had not left the chateau de 
Valleroy at the time of her separation from M. de 
Nueil. For a multitude of reasons which we must 
leave buried in the heart of a woman (and which 
women themselves will divine) Claire continued to 
live there after the marriage of M. de Nueil. Her 
seclusion was so great that even her servants, except 
her maid and Jacques, did not see her. She exacted 
absolute silence from all, and never left her room 
except to go to the chapel of the chateau, where a 
priest of the neighbourhood came every morning to 
say mass. 

Some daj's after his marriage the Comte de Nueil 
fell into a species of conjugal apathy which might be 
supposed to express happiness as much as unhappi¬ 
ness. His mother said to every one: “My son is 
perfectly happy.” 

Madame Gaston de Nueil, like many young wives, 
was rather tame, gentle, and patient; she became 
pregnant about a month after marriage. All of which 
conformed to the received ideas of wedlock. M. 
de Neuil behaved to her charmingly; only, about two 
months after his rupture with Madame de Beauseant, 
he became very dreamy and pensive. He had always 
been serious, his mother said. 

After seven months of this lukewarm happiness, 
certain events occurred, very trivial apparently, but 
bringing with them too much development of thought 
and revealing too great a trouble of soul not to be 
simply mentioned here and left to the interpretations 
of different minds. 

One day, when M. de Nueil had been hunting in the 


The Deserted Woman, 


567 


woods of Manerville and Valleroy, he returned home 
through the park of Madame de Beauseant and, stop¬ 
ping at the house, he asked for Jacques. 

“Does Madame la marquise still like game?” he 
asked. 

On Jacques’ reply in the affirmative, Gaston offered 
him quite a large dole, accompanied by very specious 
arguments, in order to obtain from him the very 
slight service of keeping for madame’s own use the 
game he shot. It seemed very unimportant to Jacques 
whether Madame la marquise ate a partridge shot by 
her keeper or by M. de Nueil, inasmuch as the latter 
insisted that she should not be told from whom it 
came. 

“It was killed on her land,” said the comte. 

Jacques lent himself for several days to this inno¬ 
cent deception. M. de Nueil went out shooting every 
morning and did not return till dinner time, but 
always without any game. A whole week went by. 
Then Gaston made bold to write a long letter to 
Madame de Beauseant and sent it to her. This letter 
was returned to him unopened. It was evening when 
her footman brought it back to him. Suddenly he 
darted from the salon, where he seemed to be listening 
to a caprice of Herold’s that his wife was murdering 
on the piano, and rushed, with the rapidity of a man 
on his way to a rendezvous, to the chMeau de Valleroy. 

Reaching it, he listened to the murmuring noises 
and knew that the servants were at dinner. He went 
up instantly to Madame de Beauseant’s apartment, 
which she now never left. He was able to reach the 
door without making any noise. There he saw, by 


568 


The Deserted Woman, 


the light of two wax-candles, his former mistress, 
emaciated, pale, seated in a large armchair, her head 
bowed, her hands pendent, her eyes fixed on an object 
that she seemed not to see. It was Sorrow in its 
most complete expression. There was something of 
vague hope in this attitude, but no one could have 
told if Claire de Bourgogne were looking to the grave 
or to the past. Perhaps the tears of M. de Nueil 
glistened in the darkness, perhaps his breathing 
echoed slightly, perhaps an involuntary shiver escaped 
him, or it may be that his presence near her was impos¬ 
sible without the phenomenon of intussusception, the 
habit of which is the glory, the joy, and the proof of 
veritable love. Madame de Beauseant turned her 
face slowly to the door and saw her former lover. M. 
de Nueil advanced a few steps. 

“If you come nearer, monsieur,’’ she cried, turning 
pale, “I will fling myself from that window.” 

She sprang to the fastening, opened it, and put her 
foot upon the sill, her hand on the rail of the balcony, 
as she turned her head to Gaston. 

“Go! go! ” she cried, “or I throw myself down.” 

At that terrible cry, M. de Nueil, hearing the ser¬ 
vants, who were roused, fled like a criminal. 

Eeturning home Gaston wrote a short letter, and 
ordered his valet to take it to Madame de Beauseant 
and tell her it was a matter of life and death. The 
messenger gone, M. de Nueil returned to the salon 
where his wife was still at the piano. He sat down 
and awaited the answer. An hour later, husband and 
wife were seated, silent, on either side of the fireplace 
when the valet returned from Valleroy and handed his 


The Deserted Woman, 


5C9 


master the letter, which had not been opened. M. de 
Nueil passed into a boudoir adjoining the salon, where 
he had left his gun on returning from the woods that 
afternoon, and killed himself. 

This quick and fatal conclusion of his fate, so con¬ 
trary to all the habits of young France, was natural. 

Persons who have carefully observed, or who have 
delightfully experienced the phenomena to which the 
perfect union of two beings gives rise, will compre¬ 
hend this suicide. A woman does not mould herself, 
does not bend herself in a single day to the caprices 
of passion. Love, like a rare flower, demands the 
choicest care of cultivation; time and the harmonizing 
of souls alone can reveal its resources, and give birth 
to those tender, delicate pleasures which we think 
inherent in the person whose heart bestows them upon 
us, and about which we cherish a thousand supersti¬ 
tions. This wonderful unison, this religious belief, 
and the fruitful certainty of ever flnding a special and 
extreme happiness near the being beloved, are, in 
part, the secret of lasting attachments and long pas¬ 
sions. Beside a woman who possesses the genius of 
her sex love is never a habit; her adorable tenderness 
clothes it in forms so varied, she is so brilliant and 
so loving, both, she puts such art into her nature, 
or so much of nature into her art, that she makes her¬ 
self as all-powerful in memory as she is by her pres¬ 
ence. Beside her all other women pale. A man must 
have had the fear of losing a love so vast, so brilliant, 
or else he must have lost it, to know its full value. 
But if, having known it, a man deprives himself of it 
to fall into a cold marriage; if the woman in whom he 


570 


The Deserted Woman. 


expects to meet with the same felicity proves to him, 
by some of those facts buried in the shadows of con¬ 
jugal life, that it can never be reborn for him; if he 
still has upon his lips the taste of that celestial love, 
and if he has mortally wounded his true spouse for the 
sake of a social chimera, then he must either die or 
take to him that material, cold, selfish philosophy 
which is the horror of all passionate souls. 

As for Madame de Beauseant, she doubtless never 
supposed that her lover’s despair would go as far as 
suicide after having drunk so deep of love for nine 
years. Perhaps she thought that she alone would 
suffer. She had, moreover, every right to refuse the 
most degrading joint-possession that exists; a shar¬ 
ing which some wives may endure for high social 
reasons, but which a mistress must hold in hatred, 
because in the purity of her love lies its only 
justification. 












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